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Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 




Illustrated Magazine 

For Girls and Boys 




November, 1875, to November, 1876. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1&76, by 


In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 

Francis Hart & Co. 

Printers and Stationers, 63 & 65 Murray Street, 


North C 



3 6 3 


Acting Ballads Amy Lcn>cll , 233 

Adventures of Five Ducks, The. Translation of French Story on 

page 170 

All for Bijou Mrs. W. S. Phillips . . . 220 

" All Thumbs. " Picture, from drawing by Hendschell . 23 

Alligators, A Few. (Illustrated) Fred Beverly 10 

America's Birthday Party. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 392 

ANDERSEN, Hans Christian. ( Illustrated) Iljalmar Jljorth Boyesen 65 

Andersen, Hans Christian. Poem Mary Mapes Dodge 9 

Angels' Ladder, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Mrs. M. F. Butts 302 

Animated Shot-guns. (Illustrated) 423 

ANTWERP, The Legend of. Poem. (Illustrated) M. It. Jf 700 

Aquarium, How to Make and Stock an Adelaide F. Samuels 254 

Arneld and his Violin. (Illustrated) Harriet Prescoti Spofford 17 

ASH-GlRL, The. (Illustrated) Lucy G. Morse 3S6 

Author of " The Boy Emigrants," The. (Illustrated) 524 

Aventures DE Cinq Canards, Les. French Story for Translation. . . .R. H 170 

Bass Cove Sketches. (Illustrated) J. T. Trowbridge. ... 35, 117, 190, 22S 

Bear at Appledore, The. (Illustrated ) Celia Thaxier 602 

Black Douglas, The. (Illustrated) Hezekiah Butterworth 209 

Bobby and the Keyhole. (Illustrated) Edward Eggleston 1S4 

. Boston Boys. Poem. (Illustrated) Nora Perry 552 

Boy Emigrants, The. (Illustrated) Noah Brooks 3, 73, 144, 211, 278, 

366, 443, 508, 567, 63S, 715, 785 

Brook-side, By the. Picture 702 

Buck-skin Breeches, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Olive A. Wads-worth 713 

Bumble-bee, The. Verse Laura E. Richards 72S 

Burning Peaches Ellen Bertha Bradley 425 

Castaways, The Fate of the. (Illustrated) J. T. Trowbridge 22S 

Cat and Dog, The. Verse. (Illustrated) M. F. B 776 

Cat and the Countess, The. (Illustrated.) Translated by T. B. Aldrieh 411, 476, 542 

"CAW!" Margaret Ey/inge S7 

Cheery People II. II 355 

Children's Party, A. (Illustrated) L. W. J 726 

Chinese New-Year, How I Kept the. (Illustrated) Fannie Roper Feudge 225 

Christmas Eve, A Southern. Poem E. M. S 1S3 

Christmas in the Arctic Regions. (Illustrated) T.H. Woodbury 157 

Christmas in the Far East. (Illustrated) Fannie Roper Feudge 165 

Christmas Morning, Good News on. Carol. (Illustrated) 177 

Christmas Presents, and How to Make them, One Hundred. (Illus- > 

<** trated) J I03 

• -Christmas Tablet 153 

^Choice, The. Poem Mary N. Prescoti .' 29S 

qpCLOUGH's TOP-KNOT. (Illustrated ) Sarah Winter Kellogg 435 

"" Coins, Our Colonial. (Illustrated! G. D. Mathews 706 



Colorado Woman's Museum, A. (Illustrated) H. H 781 

Coming Army of Voters, The. Picture, by F. A. Chapman 508 

Country Boy, The. Poem Lucy Larcom 218 

Crusoes, A Couple of. (Illustrated) .J. T. Trowbridge 190 

Dead Doll, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Margaret Vandegrift 121 

Dick Hardin in Philadelphia. (Illustrated) Lucy J. Rider 756 

Discontent. Poem. (Illustrated) Sarah O. Jeweit 247 

Doll's Wedding, A. Poem. (Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 13 

Dorothy Grey. Poem. (Illustrated) T. E. D 87 

Dotterels' Luck, The. (Illustrated) John Riverside 427 

Easter Carol, An. Poem. (Illustrated) Emily D. Chapman 385 

Easter Tablet 359 

Education of the Lion, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Lillie E. Barr 364 

Europe, Ready for Susan Coolidge 441 

Eyebrights. Poem. (Illustrated) Lily G. Warner 348 

Fairy's Wonder-Box, The. (Illustrated) Lydia Maria Child 646 

February. Picture 219 

Ferrucci and his Foes. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Davis 681 

Festival of Tapers, The. (Illustrated) Charles Dudley Warner 289 

FlESOLE, At. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 745 

Fifth of November : Guy Fawkes' Day. Poem L 21 

Fighting Fleet, The. (Illustrated) Mrs. S. B. C. Samuels 317 

First Cucumber, The. Poem Marion Douglas 485 

Fish that Walk, Some. (Illustrated - ) T. Z. S 660 

Florence. Poem. (Illustrated) 96 

FLOSCULE, The. (Illustrated) Mary Treat 300 

FOURTH of July, 1876. Picture, by Frank Beard 564 

Fourth of July Tablet 675 

Frank AND THE Toad. (Illustrated) Cyrus Cobb 89 

Frog and his Neighbors, A. (Illustrated) IV. K. Brooks 49S 

Frog, the Crab, and the Limpsy Eel, The. Verse Mary A/apes Dodge 354 

Funny Summer Verses, Some. (Illustrated) Laura E. Richards 662 

Getting Up in the World Abby Morton Diaz 195 

Gilbert Stuart. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Davis 382 

Going TO London. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary Mapcs Dodge 124 

Good Night ! Verse Mary Ma[>es Dodge 488 

Grandmamma's Tea-cup, Out of . . .Eliza Wood 125 

Graves's Grandma, The Lily Brayion 377 

Great Expectations. Verse. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 27 

Grizzly Treed Obed Rollins, How a. (Illustrated) Samuel Wool-worth Cozzens 349 

Helping Along Louisa M. Alcolt 313 

Herod. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Davis 321 

History, A Dirk Bit of Donald G. Mitchell 33 

House that Jack Built, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Abby Morton Diaz 648 

How Droll ! Verse Margaret Eytinge 29 1 

" How Much did You Get for a Penny ? " Picture, from drawing by. .Hendschell 22S 

How Old Martin and Washington Came to be Friends. (Illus- ) ,. „ ■ „,, , „ 

v \ Marv Haines Gilbert C02 

trated) ) 

How Plants Come from Seeds (Illustrated) Annie J. Mackintosh 21, 153 

How the Children Cruised in " The Water-witch." (Illustrated). .E. W. O ney 685 

How the Storks Came and Went. ( Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 559 

How General Washington got his Clothes Nevoton Perkins 796 

How Willie Coasted by Moonlight. Poem. (Illustrated) C. P. Cranch " 16S 

Hunting the Moose. (Illustrated) 240 

IMPS, The Four Little. Poem. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 504 

In THE Closet. Poem Laura E. Richards 793 

In the Pond and on the Marsh. (Illustrated) -lbby S. Alger 27 


"It Never Rains but it Pours." Picture, by "Sphinx" 492 

Jeannette and Jo. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary Mapes Dodge 601 

Jemima Brown. Poem Laura E. Richards 558 

Jingles So, 475, 540 

John Bottlejohn. Poem. (Illustrated) 704 

JON OF Iceland, The Story of. (Illustrated) Bayard Taylor 17S, 241, 305 

Journeying through the Day. Poem George Parsons Lathrop 152 

June Morning Lesson, A. Poem. (Illustrated) Julia M. Dana 521 

King of the Hobbledygoelins, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Laura E. Richards 440 

LAKE ON Fire, A. (Illustrated) Paige Dwight 356 

Land of the Grigs, The. (Illustrated) Eliza Wood 697 

LATIFA. (Illustrated) Sara Keables Hunt 327 

Legend on the Pane, The. Poem Olive A. Wadsworth 779 

Little Dame Dot. (Illustrated) Margery Deane 631 

Little Houses on the Telegraph-Poles, The. (Illustrated) William H.Rideing 303 

Little Johnny and the Mosquito. Pictures, drawn by 5. McSpeden 684 

Little Maid of Domremy, The. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 473 

Little Mermaid, The. Poem. (Illustrated) '. Carrie W. Thompson 257 

Little Old Man of the Forest, The. (Illustrated) JLezekiah Butlei-worth . . 140 

Little Snow-drop. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary E. Bradley 622 

Little Spinners, Aunt Kitty's. (Illustrated) Amanda B. Harris 653 

Lizzy of La Bourget. Poem H. H 773 

Lombardy, A Peep at Old. (Illustrated) Emma D>. Southwick 455 

Love's Jesting. Poem Horace E. Scudder 655 

Mabel's Maids. Poem W. J. Linton 523 

Man in the Iron Mask, The. (Illustrated) 332 

Marjorie's Birthday Gifts Louisa M. Alcott 161 

May-day Indoors; or, The Yotopski Family's Rehearsal Abby Morton Diaz 459 

Microscopic Brick-maker, The. (Illustrated) Mary Treat 374 

Midsummer and the Poets. (Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 60S 

Midsummer Frolics. Verse. (Illustrated) 637 

" Miss Muffett " Series, The. (Illustrated) 32, 347 

Morning and Evening Star, The. (Illustrated) Richard A. Proctor 751 

Mother Goose Pantomime : The Rats and the Mice. (Illustrated). . G. B. Bartlett 262 

" Mother's Boy' " at Sea. (Illustrated) Cyrus Martin, Jr 24 

Mother's Stratagem, The. (Illustrated) Edward King 537 

Mouse's Mistake, The. Picture, by F. Opper 576 

My Riches. Poem E.G. Taylor 6S3 

NEST without Eggs, A. Poem Howard Glyndon 429 

NlKOLIN'A. Poem. (Illustrated) Celia Thaxter 16 

" None but the Brave Deserve the Fair." Picture, by "Sphinx" 452 

Off to the Island. (Illustrated) J. T. Trowbridge 117 

Old Saw-mill, The. (Illustrated) Martha J. Lamb 504 

Old Sol and the Thermometer. Picture, by Frank Beard 672 

One Hundred Years of American History. Illustrated page, com- > „, , „ , 

\ Charles Barnard 541 

piled by 

Our Flag. (Illustrated) ' Kate Foote . 565 

Out of the Sky. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary Mapes Dodge 767 

Painter of Little Penelope, About the. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Davis 1 

Palace of Gondoforus, The. Poem H. H 400 

Patches Rosa Graham 774 

Pepper-Owl, The. (Illustrated) Sarah O. Jewett 492 

Peterkins Decide to Keep a Cow, The LucreliaP. Hale 299 

Peterkins' Picnic, The Lucretia P. Hale 605 

PlCCOLA. Poem. (Illustrated) Celia Thaxter 142 

Play for the Holidays, A 123 

Poor Boy's " Astor House," The. (Illustrated) Charles L. Brace 360 



Postage-Stamp Collecting. (Illustrated) 49 

Postman's Boy, The lulia S. Tutwiler 421 

Pot and Kettle. Verse 224 

Pressed Gentian, The. Poem Tohn. Greenleaf Whittier 320 

Puzzled Boy, A. Poem Mary Dayton 239 

Queen of the Moles, The. (Illustrated) Henry L. Williams 615 

Queen of the Orkney Islands, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Laura E. Richards 376 

Queer People. Acting Ballad. (Illustrated) Lucy B. Wiggin 379 

Races at Shark Bay, The. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Davis 710 

Railroads, Something about. (Illustrated) Major Traverse Si 

Rare Old King and his Daughters Three, The. Poem. (Illus- ) , , , , oc> 

> Laura Ledyard 28a 

trated) ) 

Reading, A Taste for Olive Tliorne 702 

Reformer, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Mrs. M. C. Pyle 47 

Robin and Crocus. (Illustrated) Emma Burt 453 

Rooms, The Expression of //. // 486 

Rosy. (Illustrated) Mary L. B. Branch 729 

Rubens. (Illustrated) Emma Burt 273 

Sally Watson's Ride. (Illustrated) Martha M. Thomas 236 

Sam's Four Bits. (Illustrated) Irwin Russell 657 

Sandy, the Hunchback. (Illustrated) Amalie La Forge 92 

Saucer-Pie, The Fortunes of a Susan Cooiidge 42 

Scotch-Cap Family Saved its Bacon, How the. (Illustrated) Ethel C. Gale 76S 

Sea-Jellies. (Illustrated) /. Liichardson 794 

Sea-side, Last Days at the. Picture 39 

Ska-side Sketches. Drawn by " Sphinx " 624, 625 

" See, Saw, Marjorie Daw ! " Poem. (Illustrated) Mrs. Clara Doty Bates 496 

September Evening, A. Picture 696 

Seven Miles up in the Air. (Illustrated) James Richardson 489 

Sh ARK, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Laura E. Richards 312 

Ship on the Ocean, My. Poem. (Illustrated) Bessie Hill 724 

Shower of Gold, The R. R. Bowker 235 

Snow-flakes. Poem Ma:y Mapes Dodge 458 

Snow-shoes, and Plow to Make Them. (Illustrated) Frederic G. Mather 310 

"Somebody Stop Him! He's Running Away." Picture, from) „ , ... „ 

sketch by ) 

Song of the Turtle and Flamingo. Poem. (Illustrated) James T. Fields 656 

Sparrow's May-day, The. Poem Alfred Nelson 453 

Spinning and Weaving Mrs. Adeline D. T. Whitney .... 633 

St. Christopher, The Parable of. Poem. (Illustrated) LL. H. 137 

St. Nicholas, The Legend of. Poem. (Illustrated) H. H 70 

St. Nicholas' Day in Germany. (Illustrated) Julia S. Tutwiler 97 

"Stitch in Time Saves Nine, A." Picture, by "Sphinx" 713 

Strawberry Girl, The. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Davis 345 

Talks with Girls 313, 355, 441, 486, 633, 702, 777 

Ten Little Country Boys. Poem. (Illustrated) 40 

To A Young Girl with a Spray of Autumn Leaves. Verse Mary Mapes Dodge 45 

To the " Bouquet Club." Poem Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr 127 

Toboggans and their Use. (Illustrated) Frederic G. Mather 222 

Toinette and the Elves. (Illustrated) Susan Cooiidge 171 

Trip and Tom. (Illustrated) J. B. L 51 

Trouble Ahead. Verse A. D. W 164 

Turkey-man, The Kind Sargent Flint 14 

Turret-ships and Torpedoes. (Illustrated) William H. Ridcing 577 

Two Goats, The. (Illustrated) Susan Cooiidge 248 

Two of Them. Poem Carrie W. Thompson 709 

Unexpected Meeting, An. Picture in silhouette, by L. Hopkins 316 


Valentine, A. Poem Laura E. Richards 241 

Victory, A Famous. (Illustrated) Ethel C. Gale 45 

Vikings in America, The. (Illus.rated) Cyrus Martin, Jr 5S5 

Waiting for the Sleigh D. F. II 196 

What they did not do on the Birthday of Jacob Abbot ])., ) , , „ „ g 
familiarly called Snibbuggledyboozledom. (Illustrated) . . . . ) 

What they Say. Poem Susan Hartley 421 

White-washing the Baby. Picture, by F. Oppcr 733 

Who Began It ? (Illustrated) Olive Thome 258 

Windsor Castle. (Illustrated) Mrs. Oliphant 292, 430, 553, 626, 

6S9, 759 

Wise Mrs. Swallow Margaret Eytinge 507 

Wonderful Flight, Willie's. (Illustrated) Celia Thaxtcr 522 

Wood-witch, The. (Illustrated) Emma Burt 324 

Worth your Weight in Gold Mary Mapes Dodge 777 

Vacob and his Donkey 4lbert Rhodes 457 

Young Joe and the Ducks. (Illustrated) J. T. Trowbridge 35 



Illustration by Mary A. Eathbury: "Jack-in-the-Pulpit "—A New Volume of St. Nicholas — Prolonging 
Life — Jack Makes an Offer — The Author of " Alice in Wonderland" — Early Birds — Live Potato-Bugs 
Washed in by the Sea — Forbidden Leaves — Blue-Jays Taking Pills — How Certain Woodpeckers Pack 
their Trunks — Ship Ahoy! 54; "Young Contributors" — Jack and the Snow— Dried-up Animals Coming 
to Life — The British Broad Arrow— Refused Blessings — The Crooked Story Straightened — Whoa! Horsey 
(illustrated) — Respect your Teachers — Left-handed Animals — Eggs and Stones— A Shrewd Farmer, 130; 
A New Year — A Sensation Among the Flowers — The Wink of Time Why Sled ? — Finger-nails Six Inches 
Long — The Nameless Terrora (illustrated) — The Sound-Bearers (illustrated) — Hoppers and Walkers, 19S; 
The Deacon's Advice — A Chance for the Chicks — Flowers in New Colors — Which Is It ? (illustrated) — An 
Ancient Present — Calabash-Tree — A Five-hundred-dollar Cat — Illustrating Proverbs (illustrated) — "As 
Much Alike as Ants in a Hill," 260 ; Forward, March ! — The Deacon Attacks an Old Saying — Perpetual- 
Motion — About the Sound-Bearers — Peas and Pepper — Romance of the Swan's Nest — Careful Husbandry 
— Chinese Beds for Lodgers — " Suppose" — How some Ships are Scrubbed, 334; April Fools' Day — Queen 
Victoria's Fall from a Balloon — A Wolf or a Fox? — Whipping the Sea — A New Sort of Kite — How 
Strange! — Drowned Fishes — A Success — The Slanderer's Mask (illustrated) — Bark Clothes, 39S; Deacon 
Green — Mud Pies — May Baskets — Eating Insects — Crying Trees — An Unhappy Traveler — The Greatest 
Toothache ever Known — Cleaning Floors with Oranges — Murre Eggs — Hospital for Animals — A Church 
Built of Petrified Wood — The Declaration of Independence : Twenty Prizes offered by Deacon Green, 
462 ; An Oration — Professor Gobba's Experiment — The Leaf of Life — True Talking — Every One to His 
Taste — Too Much Success — A Horn-book (illustrated) — Curious Letters — More About the Woodpeckers 
— Sand-writing in India, 526; The Deacon Pleased — Atlantic and Pacific — A Bird Story — A Fish that 
Lives in the Mud — Flower-Dolls — Tallow-Trees — A Grasshopper's Fiddle (illustrated) — A Man in 
Woman's Clothes — A Big Flower — Deacon Green's Prizes, 594; How to Get Cool — Bath of an Ice- 
berg — Infants in Shilling Packets — Birds that Live by Stealing — Benjamin Franklin's Reasons for Recom- 
mending the Use of Bows and Arrows in War — A Picture from the Little Schoolma'am (illustrated) — 
Too Much of a Good Thing — Kaffir Mother-in-Law — Kaffir Letter-Carrier, 670 ; A Verse from the Deacon 
— An Army Sliding Down Hill — Home-made Beauty— A Horse that Knew it was Sunday — A Kind o' 
Garden — Bernard, the Hermit — Ready-made Clothing Grown on a Tree — A Cold-Country Dress — A Letter 
from Scotland to our Robin— The Song of the Shirt, 734; School Again— Object-Cards — The Little School- 
ma'am's Picture— Pickles— Old Abe, the War Eagle of Wisconsin (illustrated)— The Termites— To be 
Learned by Heart— About the Mud-fish, 79S. 


Young Contributors' Department. 

The Current of Death — A New Way to Row a Boat (illustrated) — A Thrilling Night Adventure at a 
Boarding-School, 202 ; A Scotch Girl's Impressions of New York — Fido and 1 — Charles Melrose's Proverb 
— A True Bird Story, 266 ; Something about Prague — The Bumble-Bees' Party — How we went Jack-Fishing, 
403; The Farm-house — Bubbles — The Mansion of Old — Snyder — Picture by a Young Contributor, 531; 
Mr. Pemberton (illustrated), 596; The Diamond and the Loadstone — In the Dark — Anna's Pig — The 
Rain — In Season and Out of Season — A Fine Yacht-Race — Picture : " Sir Isaac Newton Discovering 
Gravitation," 73X ; The Three Giants — A Hundred Years — Camping Out — The Naughty Turkey — The 
Homeless Cat, 803. 

For Very Little Folks. (Illustrated.) 

An Alphabet from England, 56 ; What Robby Saw, 12S ; My Uncle Jehoshaphat — Baby Bo, 200 ; Victor's 
Wonderful Animals, and What They Almost Did, 263; The Black Horse "Bob"' — The Mouse "who Lost 
Her Great Long Tail, 336; The Old Hen and Her Family, 400; The Fate of a Ginger-bread Man — Picture: 
" Our Cat," 464; What Kittikin Said to the Kitten in the Looking-glass, 52S ; Toby, 592 ; Brave Tim, the 
Centennial Cat, 666 ; How Tommy Came Home, 736 ; The Little Dog with the Green Tail, Soo. 


Miss Penelope Boothby, I ; Hans Christian Andersen, 65 ; St. Christopher, 137 ; " Do Not be so Sure of 
That," 209 ; The Boy Rubens and His Master, 273 ; The Strawberry Girl, 345; Various Head-dresses of 
the Present Day, 409 ; The Maid of Domremy, 473 ; Wooden Pulpit in the Church of St. Andrew, Antwerp, 
537; Sub-title Page, "Midsummer Holiday Number" — Jeannette and Jo, 601 ; Statue of Ferrucci, in 
Florence, 681 ; Princess Victoria, 745. 

Little Housekeeper's Page. (Illustrated.) 

Beef-Tea, 33S ; Frosting, 461 ; Broiled Chicken — Deviled Chicken, 591 ; Ice-Cream, 676. 

The Letter-Box 60, 132, 203, 268, 339, 404, 46S, 533, 597, 677, 740, 804 

The Riddle-Box. (Illustrated) 62, 134. 206, 270, 341. 406, 471, 535, 599, 679, 743, 806 

Prize Puzzles and Exercises. 

The Race of the Pilots, 134 ; A Short Tale, 260 ; The Declaration of Independence, 463. 

Answers, to Prize Puzzles and Exercises 341, 466, 672 

Our Music Page. 

Sippety Sup, 402 ; Violets, 530. 


Vol. III. 

NOVEMBER, 1875. 

No. 1. 


By Rebecca Harding Davis. 

LITTLE Penelope Boothby looks at us all with 
such a friendly, innocent face, over the gap of a 
hundred years, that I, for one, felt I must ask the 
little girl, in some way, how the world had used 
her in that long-ago time. It was a brilliant, 
wicked world into which she had come, but with 
plenty of gracious, good women hidden, as now, 
in quiet homes. Did little Penelope grow into one 
of these wives and mothers, or was she among the 
famous dazzling beauties whose histories no child 
could read ? 

There is an old library near me that is a verita- 
ble Doomsday-book in itself, — a record of the lives 
of obscure, forgotten people. There, after diligent 
search one September afternoon, I found the story 
of the little lady, hidden in a brown old book, its 
leaves thin with age. I found in it this little girl's 
picture, which St. Nicholas has now so beauti- 
fully engraved after Sir Joshua Reynolds' painting, 
and beneath, written by her father, " Penelope, 
aetat. s. iv." Her eyes, he said, were blue, and the 
hair under the queer old cap " translucent gold." 
There was a picture, too, of her home, Asbourne 
Hall, buried among trees, and of the quaint old 
church where the little girl knelt beside her mother 
on Sunday mornings ; and there was much fond 
talk of how she watched at the gate for her father 
coming home, or sat at evening on his knee, and 
was, in a word, his one only child, too well beloved. 

For the name of the book was " Sorrows," and 
it was the lamentations of a father, written at inter- 
vals during a long life, for the child who died when 
but seven years old. All that the age possessed 

Vol. III. — 1. 

of genius had come to his aid to preserve her 
memory : Sir Joshua had painted her ; there was 
a marble statue by Banks of the child, as she fell, 
smiling, into her last sleep, her hands closed 
together under her chubby cheek ; and a wonder- 
ful picture by Fuseli of the silent angel Death 
softly lifting the dear baby, still smiling, to her 

So I was glad that little Penelope never changed 
into a great court beauty, or even into a happy 
wife and mother ; but that the child went home 
just as we see her, to the land where there are so 
many children, and where He who loves them 
best of all never leaves them. 

I am sure the children here who see to-day her 
friendly little face will be glad to know something 
of the man who has sent it to us across these hun- 
dred years. His story means, after all, more to us 
than that of Penelope. 

One July morning in 1723, a baby was born in 
the schoolmaster's house in the English sea-coast 
village of Plympton Earl. The schoolmaster had 
six children already ; the news, therefore, pro- 
duced no great stir among the neighbors. Yet, 
although the village was nigh a thousand years old 
when the baby was born, and more than a hundred 
and fifty years have passed since then, it is only 
known to the world as the birthplace of this little 
boy, who was christened Joshua, and grew up with 
his eleven brothers and sisters, noticed by nobody, 
coarsely dressed and poorly fed. The children 
were fond of drawing, as all children are. but were 
too poor to own paper and pencils, and used char- 



coal instead, on the cellar walls. We have the 
name of the lady who gave them their first pencil, 
so great a possession did they hold it. Joshua's 
drawings were different from the others, in the 
scrupulous care with which they were finished. 
Many of the boys who read this can dash you off 
a tiger or a ship on a black-board so effective that 
their mothers are sure they will be great art- 
ists. Little Joshua did not work in that way. 
Before he was eight years old he had found a book 
on the rules of Perspective, and studied it. There 
is still to be seen a Latin exercise, Dc Lahore, on 
the back of which is drawn a book-case in panels. 
Beneath, his father has written, " Drawn by Joshua 
in school, out of pure idleness." But the idleness 
was painstaking, most faithful work ; for critics 
assure us that in this drawing are to be found the 
same conscientious care and delicacy which marked 
the great pictures of his later years. His brothers, 
as they grew older, sketched and daubed away vig- 
orously ; but Joshua worked at drawing. Before he 
was ten years old, he had studied so thoroughly 
Richardson's Treatise on Painting, that its theories 
worked like leaven in his mind all through his life. 
He copied faithfully, too, such books of engraving 
as fell in his way ; studied, as other boys do Latin 
and arithmetic, the combination and rules of color. 
His pencil (we hope money was given without 
grudging for his pencils then) was seldom out of his 
hand. If he had no paper near, he sketched on his 
thumb-nail some face that struck him. One of these 
faces (that of a Latin master) he copied from his 
nail in a boat-house under the cliff, using a piece 
of old sail for canvas, and the wheelwright's coarse 
paints. The portrait still exists, — a forcible and 
remarkable drawing, according to Cotton. 

Joshua's father, who had meant to make an 
apothecary of the boy, was touched by his diligence 
and faithfulness in the work he had chosen, and 
consented to enter him at sixteen as a pupil w th 
Hudson, then the first portrait-painter of England. 
The price paid Hudson was about $Soo for four 
years, — a heavy tax on the poor schoolmaster, with 
his swarm of children, and sometimes but one 
scholar. If Joshua in after years followed that 
branch of art which paid him best, and saved his 
pence that he might give guineas to his family, we 
should not blame him too hardly. He learned the 
value of money in sore experience, and through the 
many sacrifices which his family made for him. 

Hudson taught the boy the rules of his art, but 
he also taught him the formal, stiff style of por- 
trait-painting then in vogue : every lady wore the 
same glazed smile, every man carried his hat under 
his arm, and frowned under his fair wig. As long 
as young Reynolds copied his master's work, his 
pictures deserved little notice ; but one day, ventur- 

ing on his own theory of truth to Nature, he paint- 
ed the portrait of an old servant-woman, and hung 
it up in the gallery. Hudson was honest enough 
to confess that it was better than any work he could 
do, but was too jealous of his pupil to allow him 
to remain any longer with him. Joshua then 
returned to Devonshire, and began the practice of 
his art in Plymouth as a portrait-painter. When 
he was about twenty-six years old, he formed a 
friendship with Commodore Keppel, and with him 
visited Southern Europe, remaining two years in 
Rome, studying his art, as he tells us, " with 
measureless content." One of his first pictures, on 
his return, was that of his friend, then Admiral 
Keppel, in which he carried out his idea of giving 
to the figure characteristic expression and an appro- 
priate background. The gallant Admiral stands 
upon a stormy beach, his hair and mantle blown 
by the wind, his hand on his sword. This picture 
opened the door to fame and fortune for the 

Thereafter the history of Joshua Reynolds was a 
series of steady triumphs. He never married, his 
stately house always being a home for his sisters or 
their orphan children. All the poets, philosophers 
and statesmen of the time, all the beautiful women 
came to him to be painted, quite sure that if there 
were any latent nobility or charm in their faces 
which nobody had yet seen, he would discover it 
and make it immortal. Here, perhaps, lay the 
strength of Sir Joshua's portraits. He painted 
men and women as they ought to have looked in 
their best moment of life ; hence, although his 
colors now in some cases have given way, his 
favorite lakes dulled, and the carmine turned pur- 
ple, the faces look upon us from the canvas with a 
wonderful power and sweetness. We tell ourselves 
that these were not ordinary men and women who 
lived in that time ; they must have been " gods 
and heroes who blazed across that sky ; " and the 
man who painted them was surely of their kin. 

The Royal Academy, founded during his life, 
elected the schoolmaster's son the first President ; 
he was knighted immediately after; and, what was 
of much more value to him, he welcomed at his 
table as his friends the most noble and illustrious 
men and women of his time. At the age of 
sixty-six, while painting the portrait of the Mar- 
chioness of Hertford, he felt a sharp pain in his 
eye, and was conscious that his sight had failed. 
He laid down his pencil, never to lift it again ; and 
five years later died, having been for nearly half a 
century "sole dictator in the realm of English 

Boys who read this little story will notice that it 
was by no sudden "spurt" of genius, no spas- 
modic effort that he reached this place. He found 


out the work for which he was fitted, and gave to excel must go to his work, whether willing or 

himself to it patiently, both in brain and body, unwilling, morning, noon and night; and he will 

Sir Joshua himself tells it all in a line, in his find it to be no play, but, on the contrary, very 

advice to a young artist : '• The man determined hard labor." 


By Noah Brooks. 

Chapter I. 


.-■-* 1 .' 


YT'S no use talking, 
Arty, there are too 
many of us. The pie 
don't go round." 

Arthur smiled a lit- 
tle ruefully as he ad- 
ded to Barnard's com- 
plaint : " And Sam 
and Oliver wear their 
clothes all out before 
they can be made 
over for me. " 

Barnard — whose 
whole name, by the 
way, was Barker Bar- 
nard Stevens — show- 
ed his confidence in his younger 
brother's judgment when he 
said: "As we are a too numer- 
ous family, what is to be done 
about it ? Kill off a few ? " 
Arthur was one of seven — great hearty boys all 
of them. His trousers were inherited from his 
elder brother Sam, and had been " turned" in the 
legs and were already inconveniently short. With 
an impatient little jerk at the knee of one of these 
objectionable legs, he said : " Let 's .emigrate ! " 

Barnard, five years older, and more cautious, 
asked : " Where to ? " 

"Oh, anywhere, so that we have a chance to 
strike out for ourselves. Father emigrated from 
Vermont with all of us young ones, and why 
should n't we put out for the Far West, I 'd like to 
know ? It is n't so far from Illinois to Somewhere- 
else now, as it was from Vermont to Illinois when 
we were brought here." 

" A great deal vou know about it, voting Arthur 

boy. Why, you were only six years old when we 
came here." 

"All right, Barney, but I'm fifteen now, and 
have not studied geography for nothing." 

" Boys ! boys ! it 's time to turn in. You 've got 
to go down to Turner's to-morrow after those grain 
sacks ; and your ma says there 's no rye-meal in 
the house for Saturday's baking." 

This was the voice of Farmer Stevens from the 
porch. The boys had been sitting on the rail-fence 
in front of the house while the twilight fell. The 
evening was tranquil but gloomy, and they had 
taken a somewhat somber view of family affairs, 
considering what cheery, hopeful young fellows 
they were. 

But it was a fact that there were too many of 
them. There were four boys older than Arthur, 
two younger, and a baby sister. Since the Stevens 
family had settled in Northern Illinois, things had 
gone wrong all over the country. First, the chinch- 
bug came upon them and ate up their crop — and it 
was not much of a crop, either. Then they had a 
good year and felt encouraged ; but next there fell 
a sort of blight on the Rock River region. It was 
dry in seeding-time and wet in Harvest. The smut 
got into the wheat — and nobody planted anything 
besides wheat in those days. So. what with rust, 
mildew, and other plagues, poor Farmer Stevens 
was left without much more than grain enough to 
feed his growing boys. His cattle went hungry or 
to the butchers. From year to year things alter- 
nated between bad and worse. It was discouraging. 

As the boys climbed down from their perch, Bar- 
nard said to his father : 

" Arty and I are going to emigrate." 

" Yes. to Turner's mill: and be sure you bring 
back all those grain-sacks, Arthur." 

But the watchful mother heard the remark, and 
said, as the boys lumbered upstairs to bed : 

" Barnard was cut-up to-night because he missed 


I November, 

his piece of pie. Joe Griffin was here, and it did 
not go round.'' 

" Well, I must say, mother," replied Farmer 
Stevens, "it's hard lines when the boys fall out 
with their provender ; but Barney is dreadful no- 
tional, and he's out of conceit with Illinois." 

" Yes, father, he is a restless boy, and he and 
Arty set so much by each other ; when one goes 
the other will." 

The poor mother laid her sleeping baby in the 
cradle, and sat for a moment looking out over the 
dim landscape beyond the open window. 

Sugar Grove was a small settlement on a broken 
rise of ground. Behind stood a dense grove of 
sugar-maples, extending two miles east and west. 
In front of the few houses and the row of wheat- 
farms was a broad valley, belted with trees, and 
through which Rock River wound in big curves, 
now faint in the early Summer night. The crop 
was mostly in the ground, and the little farm looked 
tidy. But the fences were not in good repair, the 
house had never been painted, and the whole place 
seemed pinched and poor. 

" This is n't the ' rich West,' after all," sighed 
Mrs. Stevens, sadly ; and the tears gathered in her 
eyes as she thought of her noble boys growing 
up in such strait circumstances, with defeat and 
poverty continually before them. " So the pic 
would n't go round ? Poor Barney !" The mother 
laughed a sad little laugh to herself, as she thought 
of Barnard's grim discontent. 

Returning from Turner's, next day, Arthur 
brought the family mail which had been left at the 
mill by some of the neighbors down the road, on 
their way home from town. It was not a heavy 
mail; and, as Arthur jogged along on Old Jim, 
sitting among the grain-sacks, he opened the vil- 
lage newspaper. The Lee County Banner was pub- 
lished once a week, and the local news usually 
occupied half a column. This week that important 
part of the paper was led off with a long paragraph 
headed ''Latest News from California! Arrival 
of Joshua Gates, Esq. ! " Arthur held his breath 
and read as follows : 

We take great pleasure in informing our friends and patrons, as 
well as the public generally, that Joshua Gates, Esq., our esteemed 
and h:ghly-respected fellow-citizen, has just arrived from California, 
overland. Accompanied by a bold and adventurous band of Mis- 
sourians, he has crossed the continent in the unprecedented time of 
sixty-five days, stopping in Mormondom two days to recruit. Our 
fortunate fellow-citizen brings ample confirmation of the richness of 
the gold discoveries of California. To say that he brings tangible 
proof of all this would be to put the case in its mildest form. Our 
hands have handled and our optics have gazed upon the real stuff 
brought by our enterprising feilow-citizen, who assures us that the 
half has nut been told us, and that he proposes to return as soon as 
possible to what may now with extreme propriety be called the Land 
of Gold, where we are told that a "strike" of hundreds of thousands 
is a common thing, and any industrious man may make from $15 to 
$1,500 per day. We welcome our distinguished fellow-citizen home 
again, and congratulate him on his wcll-deservcd success. We ap. 

pend a few of the reigning prices in California : Flour, $15 per bbl. ; 

pork, $:.5operlb. ; fresh beef, $1.00 to $1.50 ditto; mining-boots, 

$50 per pr. : quinine, $50 peroz. ; newspapers, anywhere from $1.00 

to $5.00 each. 

" Gold I Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! 

Bright and yellow, hard and cold, 
Molten, graven, hammer'd and rolled ; 
Heavy to get and light to hold." 

Arthur dfd not stop to read the poetry ; he folded 
up the paper with emphasis, jammed it into his 
pocket, pulled his straw hat tightly on his head, 
and said : " The very thing ! " Old Jim, who had 
been browsing off the hazel brush as his young 
rider absorbed the news, looked around with meek 

"Yes, you old rascal, that's the very thing! 
We '11 go to California, my boy ; and when we are 
picking up the diamonds and gold-dust, wont we 
tell Old Turner to go hang for an old hunks ! " 

Jim neighed and pricked up his ears, just as if 
he understood that the miller had taken more toll 
from the rye than young Arthur thought he was 
entitled to. 

" Digging up gold in California ! Hey, Jim ! " 
and Arthur went cantering up the road as blithely 
as if he were already in the Land of Gold. 

" Say, mother, Josh Gates has got back." 

" Has that worthless, miserable vagabond come 
back to plague his poor old mother once more ? " 
asked the plain-speaking Mrs. Stevens. " Well, 
well, he's the bad penny, that's certain sure." 

" But he's rich — got lots of gold from California 
— and the Banner says he 's a distinguished fellow- 
citizen," remonstrated Arthur, who suddenly re- 
flected, however, that Josh Gates had gone off 
"between two days," when he departed from Lee 
County, and that he had been indicted for stealing 
hens, and that his former reputation in the town of 
Richardson was not at all fragrant. 

Arthur was a little crest-fallen, but he handed 
Sam the paper, and said : 

' " Perhaps Gates is a liar, as well as a chicken- 
stealer ; but you see the newspaper man says that 
he has seen his gold-dust ; so there ! " 

" Oh, pshaw ! " said his mother, returning to 
her wash-tub ; "these gold stories about Califor- 
nia are all got up to help the shipping people. 
They are selling their vessels, and advertising to 
take folks out at great prices. So the Chicago 
papers say ! " 

" But Josh Gates came back overland, ma," 
said the boy. 

" 'Tis my opinion that that scamp has never 
been farther west than Iowa," cried Sam, holding 
up the paper with a knowing air. " Hi Fender 
saw him over to Council Bluffs last Fall, sweeping 
out a billiard saloon. He went from there to St. 
Louis as deck hand on a steamboat. He aint 
worth shucks." 



Having so said, Sam went on mending his ox- 
yoke, as if the case were finally settled. 

That day, Arthur and Barnard worked together 
in the field putting in a second crop where the 
first seeding had been winter-killed. They talked 
over and over again the chances of the journey to 
California, the story of the gold discoveries, the 
truth or falsehood of. Josh Gates, and fill the ways 
and means of getting across the continent. About 
this last branch of the subject there was a great 
deal of doubt. It would cost much money. 

"But only think, Barney, how grand 'twould 
be if we could come home in a year or two with 
lots of gold, pay off the mortgage, build a new 
house, and fix things comfortable for the folks 
during the rest of their lives ! Would n't that 


And Arthur, in a great glow of anticipa- 

tion, scattered the seed-wheat far and wide by big 

" Take care there, boy ! you 're throwing away 
that grain," grumbled Barnard, who was twenty- 
years old, and a little less enthusiastic than Arthur. 
But he added, "I do just believe there's gold in 
California ; and if we can only figure it out to satisfy 
the folks, we '11 go there, by hook or crook." 

" It 's a whack ! " cried Arthur, who was ardent, 
and a little slangy. 

Chapter II. 


" Now, if I was in a story-book," said Arthur 
to himself, one day, " I should find a wallet in the 
road, with one hundred and fifty dollars in it." 
One hundred and fifty dollars was just about the 
sum which the boys had found they needed to 
complete an outfit for California. Without any 
formal declaration of their intention, or any 
expression of opinion from father and mother, Bar- 
nard and Arthur had gone on with their plans ; 
but these were all in the air, so far. The details 
worried them a great deal. 

There was a spare wagon on the farm which 
might be fixed up and mended well enough to 
last for the journey across the Plains. Old Jim 
could be taken from the plow ; but they must 
have another horse, some mining tools, harness, 
and provisions. From a New England newspaper 
they cut a list of articles considered necessary for 
the journey. It was fascinating, but formidable. 
This is the way it ran : 

i Wagon $125.00 

Wagon Cover ; 12.00 

2 Horses or Mnles 150.00 

Harness • 60.00 

Tent : 25.00 

4 Picks 5.00 

2 Shovels 4-4° 

4 Gold-Pans $1.00 

2 Axes 5-50 

8 Cwt. Flour 34.00 

1 Bush. Beans 1.25 

2 Bush. Corn Meal 4.75 

1 Cwt. Pork 10.00 

4 Cwt. Bacon 44.00 

1 Cwt. Sugar 8 .00 

50 Lbs. Rice 5-50 

60 Lbs. Coffee ^^ 10.80 

Sundry Small Storc?^ 10.00 

Ammunition 12.00 

Medicines 5-00 

Total £523.20 

" More than five hundred dollars ! " Arthur would 
say, over and over again. " More than five hun- 
dred dollars, and we have n't five hundred cents ! " 

By degrees, however, the boys had managed to 
reduce the sum-total somewhat. The wagon, they 
thought, might be taken out of the list. So might 
one of the horses, if Old Jim could be put instead. 
Then the sixty dollars for harness could be brought 
down to less than half that amount. They could 
make some of the old harness on the farm avail- 
able — with their father's consent. They could take 
less pork and more bacon. 

" I hate pork, any how," said Barnard, who 
had worked one season of haying with a neighbor, 
and had been fed on fried pork and hot bread 
three times a day, for five weeks. 

"But we can't have hams and shoulders," ob- 
jected Arthur. " Don't they cost a good deal ? " 

" Side-meat 's the thing, Arty. No bones in it; 
easy to carry, and cheap. Nine cents a pound ; 
and we 've got a lot in the smoke-house, you know, 
that perhaps father will let us have some from." 

"And this fellow has got down bacon at eleven 
cents a pound ! " said Arthur, with great disdain. 
"And what he should put in 'Sunday small stores' 
at ten dollars for, is more than I know. What are 
' Sunday small stores.' any how ? " 

"Ho, you goose! — those are 'sundry small 
stores.' You've made an a out of an r; that's 
all. ' Sunday small stores ! ' Well, that's a good 
one ! He 's guessed at the lot ; and I guess it 's 
high for a little salt, spice, and such knick-nacks. 
Besides, there 's five dollars for medicine. Who 's 
going to be sick on the Plains. I 'd like to know ? " 

A multitude of such discussions as these, with 
much contriving and figuring, put the young emi- 
grants where they could see their way clear to an out- 
fit — if they had only one hundred and fifty dollars 
in cash. That was a big sum ; and, even with this, 
they had calculated on obtaining permission to take 
from the farm many things which were needed. 

The boys studied over the ways and means of 
getting to California with real enjoyment. Hubert, 
the big brother, who was employed in a store in 
town, and came home on Sundays, declared that 
Arthur carried the printed slip from the Plow- 



man to bed with him. Nevertheless, the whole 
family joined in the debate over the propriety of 
taking corn-meal on such a long journey, or the 
cost of extra boots and clothing for the travelers, 
with a glow of satisfaction. It was a novelty, and, 
though none but Barney and Arthur really thought 
anything would come of it, all the boys discussed 
the route, outfit, and dangers of the way, at morn- 
ing, noon and night. 

They made out new lists of things indispensable 
for the trip, and fingered these with a certain sort 
of fascination for the items and figures which was 

the plains? Would he find there the romance and 
fun which he anticipated ? 

"If I was only in a story-book, now, I should 
find a wallet in the road with one hundred and fifty 
dollars in it." 

Arthur had said this to himself a great many 
times. This time, as he lay at full length on top 
of the hill behind the house, looking off down the 
valley of the Rock, he built once more his golden 
dream. Beyond the brown, newly plowed fields, 
suggesting only hard work ; beyond the tall cotton- 
woods that bordered the stream, and bevond the 





quite satisfactory. As Sam said one day, they had 
the fun of talking about it, even if nobody should go. 
The care-worn mother looked on and listened. 
She could not contentedly think of these dear young 
fledglings of hers flying so far away from the home 
nest. There were dreadful tales of Indians on the 
way, disease, and death, and violence and crime in 
the gold-diggings. What would become of her 
boys, alone and unfriended, in that rude country, 
even if they should ever reach it ? She looked at 
Arthur's golden head, deep in the mysteries of the 
cookery-book, which he was studying for future 
use ; and she sighed and smiled together. Could 
she trust her boy to the chances of a roving life on 

pale blue line where the valley of« the Rock River 
melted into the sky, was the promised land. So 
far away it was ! Yet he could see, he thought, 
the gay caravans pressing on to the golden shores 
of the Pacific. There were long trains of brave 
men with wagons, horses and arms. There were 
the rolling prairies dotted with buffalo, deer, and 
strange game. The red man lurked by the trails, 
but fled away to the snow-capped mountains as the 
white conqueror came on apace. The grand Rocky 
Mountains, whose devious line he had painfully 
studied on his school-map, rose majestically on the 
horizon, lying like clouds against the sky. 

How mean and narrow the little farm below 



him looked ! How small the valley and how 
wearisome the plowed fields ! He remembered 
that his back had ached with the planting of that 
ten-acre lot ; and he remembered, too, how his 
father had said that little boys' backs never ached ; 
that little boys thought their backs ached, but they 
did n't. Arthur turned his eyes westward again 
with a vague and restless longing. Surely, there 
was a place for him somewhere outside the narrow 
valley, where he could make a name, see the 
world, and learn something besides plowing, sow- 
ing, harvesting and saving. 

"One hundred and fifty dollars," he murmured 
once more, as his eye fell on Hiram Fender, slowly 
plodding his way through the tall grass below the 
hill. "Oh, Hi !" called Arthur, and Hiram, shading 
his eyes from the sinking sun, looked up where 
Arthur lay on the ledge. Everybody liked the 
cheery Arthur; and Hi Fender climbed the hill 
with ""Well, now, youngster, what's up?" 

" Nothing, only Barney wanted me to ask you, 
whenever I saw you, what you 'd take for that white 
mare of yours. She is yours, is n't she ? " 

" Well, yes, I allow she 's mine. Dad said he 'd 
gin her to me on my twenty-first buthday, and 
that was Aprile the twenty-one." 

" What '11 you take for her ? " 

" Don't want to sell. Besides, what d' ye want 
her for ? " 

" To go to California with." 

" Be you fellers going to Californy?" 

■' Yes, if we can get up an outfit." 

Hiram Fender looked languidly over the glow- 
ing landscape. He was a " slow-molded chap," 
Farmer Stevens said; and he never was excited. 
But the sun seemed to burn in his eyes as he 
said : " Will you take a feller along ? " 

"Who? You?" 

" Sartin, sartin ; I 've been a-thinkin' it over, and 
I '11 go if you fellers go." 

Arthur jumped up, swung his ragged hat two or 
three times, and said: "Good for you, Hi! and 
the list is made out for four ! " 

Hiram looked on him with a mild query expressed 
on his freckled face, and Arthur took out of his 
pocket the well-worn list for the outfit and read : 
" The following list is calculated for four persons, 
making a four months' trip from the Mississippi to 
the gold diggings." 

Hiram looked at it and said: "Five hundred 
and twenty-three dollars ! Phew ! " 

Hiram's father was a thrifty Illinois farmer. The 
neighbors said he was " forehanded; " but he had 
brought up his boys to look at least twice at a dol- 
lar before spending it ; therefore, when Hiram 
looked at the sum total of the list, he said " Phew ! " 
with an expression of great dismay. 

" But," cried Arthur, " it is for four persons, and 
we have figured it down so that we only want one 
hundred and fifty dollars. Can't you think of 
some other fellow that would go ? Then we should 
have a party of four." 

" I allow that Tom might go. He wants to go to 
Californy powerful bad ; but I aint right sure that 
dad '11 let him." 

Now, Tom was Hiram's younger brother and 
Arthur's particular aversion. So Arthur dubiously 
said: " Wouldn't Bill go? " 

"Bill!" repeated Hiram, with great disgust. 
"Bill hasn't got spunk enough to go across the 
Mississippi. Why, he's that scared of Injuns that 
he gets up in the middle of the night, dreaming 
like enough, and yelling " Injuns ! Injuns!" He 
was scart by a squaw when he was a baby, and 
he goes on like mad whenever he hears 'em men- 

Arthur laughed. "And he's older than you, 

"Yes, Bill's the oldest of the family. But 
there 's little Tom, now. Aint he peart, though ? 
He can yoke up a pair of young steers, or shuck 
a bushel of corn equal to any grown man about 
these parts. And he 's only fifteen come harvest, 
too ! He 's just afraid of nothing. He '11 go fast 

" That is if your father will let him." 

"Yes, if dad '11 let him. And we can put in 
my white mare agin your Old Jim. But my white 
mare will kick your Old Jim all to pieces, I allow; " 
and Hiram grinned at what he thought was the 
great contrast between the two horses. 

Arthur was very much elated at the prospect of 
reinforcements to the party, though he could not 
regard Tom Fender as a desirable recruit. Tom 
was an awkward, loutish lad, disposed to rough 
ways, and holding very contemptuous views of the 
manners of the Stevens family, whom he called 
" stuck-up Boston folks." Arthur had felt obliged 
to challenge Tom to open combat on one occasion, 
when that young gentleman, secure behind Old 
Fenner's corn-crib, bawled out "mackerel-catch- 
ers ! " at Arthur and his brothers as they were jog- 
ging along to church one Sunday morning. The 
consequence was that both boys wore black-and- 
blue eyes after that encounter, and suffered some 
family discipline besides. They had since been on 
very distant terms of acquaintance. 

" I don't care. Hi Fender is a downright good- 
fellow," said Arthur, when Barnard opened his 
eyes at the information that the two Fender boys 
might be secured for their party. 

" Yes, but how about Tom ? " 

Arthur hesitated. " Well. I want to get off 
across the plains. That 's a fact. I think I could 



get along with Tom, if you can. He is real smart 
with cattle and horses, you know." 

" Oh, I don't care for Tom," said Barnard, dis- 
dainfully. " He 's only a little chap, smaller than 
you, and he wont worry me. Besides, his brother 
Hi is a mighty good fellow, even if he is rough. 
He is pretty close, I know, but we sha' n't quarrel 
about that. We 've all got to be economical, if we 
are to get across to California." 

So it was agreed, and when word came up the 
road that Mr Fender had consented that his boys 

know but what I 'd go myself. It 's pretty hard 
pickings here." Farmer Stevens had a roving dis- 
position, which he had not quite outgrown. 

" But," remonstrated the mother, " they haven't 
money enough to give them a good outfit. It 
would be a frightful thing to let those thoughtless 
boys go out on the great plains without food and 
other things sufficient to take them through." 

" Now, mother, I 've been thinking that we 
might sell the wood off the lower half of the wood- 
lot down by the marsh. Page has offered me one 


should go, there was great excitement in the 
Stevens house. It really seemed as if the boys 
were going to California. They had insensibly 
glided into the whole arrangement without taking 
any family vote on it. Neither father nor mother 
had once consented or refused that the boys should 
go with so much of an outfit as they might pick up. 

"Oh, father," said Mrs. Stevens, "it is heart- 
breaking to think of those boys going off alone into 
the wilderness. I 'm sure I shall never see them 
again, if they go." 

" Well, mother, I should like to keep them on 
the place ; but they are getting restive, and I don't 
much blame them. They've got the gold fever 
pretty bad ; and if I was as young as they, I don't 

hundred dollars for the cut. That, with what the 
Fenders put in and what we have on the place, 
would give the boys a tolerable fit-out." 

That wood-lot was the special pride of the family. 
" Timber," as every species of tree was called in 
those parts, was scarce. Wood was dear, and in 
some seasons the prairie farmers used corn for fuel, 
it was so much cheaper than wood ; and it cost a 
great deal to get the grain to market. It was a 
great sacrifice to cut down those maples and sell 
them for fire-wood. But Farmer Stevens, poring 
over maps, estimates of provisions, and California 
news, with his boys, had been secretly fired with 
the gold fever. He could not go ; but he was will- 
ing to give up the standing timber in order that 

i8 7 5-: 

'HE B O V E M I G R A N T S . 

Barnard and Arthur should have a good outfit. 
It cost him a struggle. But, old as he was, he 
sympathized with the boys in their adventurous 
ambition. He was not so sanguine about the gold 
of California holding out long. But it was there 
now. He had seen and handled Josh Gates' pile 
of dust ; and Solomon Bookstaver, who went to 
the Columbia River, five years before, had just 
come back from California and had fired the entire 
population of Lee Centre with his display of golden 
nuggets, or chispas, as Sol called them. 

When the father's determination to sell the wood 
off his wood-lot was made known the next day, in 
family council, Barnard's face glowed, and Sam 
said : " Well, I swan to man !" Arthur dashed out 
by the back door, turned five or six " flip-flaps " to 
calm himself, came back, and, putting his arm 
about his father's neck, whispered in his ear, " You 
are the best old father, a boy ever had ! " 

So it was finally settled that the boys should go 
to California, across the plains, the party consisting 
of Barnard and Arthur Stevens, and Hiram and 
Thomas Fender. 

Great were the preparations. The provisions 
available on the two farms were laid under contri- 
bution. The tent, a marvel of comfort and light- 
ness, was made and set up before the house, to the 
great curiosity of the passing neighbors, who stopped 
their teams, and asked : " Gwine to Californy ? " 

In those days, groceries and clothing were cheaper 
than now, and, with the cash which the party had 
collected, they laid in a very fair supply, and had a 
little money left to use when absolutely necessary 
on the journey. The young fellows hugely enjoyed 
getting ready. The woolen shirts and jean over- 
alls, wide hats and leather belts, which were to be 
their uniform, were put on with solid satisfaction. 
Tom swaggered around with a seven-barreled Colt's 
revolver, nearly as big as himself, slung on his hip. 
Those delightful days of packing flew quickly. 
The wagon was crammed full to the ash bows 
which supported the canvas cover. A sheet-iron 
camp-stove was tied on behind. Water-pail and 
tar-bucket dangled underneath. Thus equipped, 
one fine May morning, the gold hunters drove 
away. Old Jim and White Jenny trotted gayly 
down the road, their faces turned toward the 

Father and mother stood at the gate. Hi Fen- 
der drove the wagon, the rest of the party trudging 
along by the side. Hubert, who had come over 
from town to see the departure, with Sam and 
Oliver, accompanied the young adventurers to the 
top of the divide, where they left them. 

And so they were off. Behind them was home. 
Before them an unknown sea of privation, danger, 
want and adventure. The wagon disappeared over 
the ridge. The boys were gone. 

(To be ctmtimied.) 


(Copenhagen, August 4th, I&Jj.) 

THERE is silence in the Northland, for one hath passed away 
Honored of all, a veteran, weary for many a day — 
Weary of earth, of suffering, of toil and cumbering care, 
Eager to lay the burden down, but willing still to bear. 
A silence in the Northland. Yet Denmark's soul is glad- 
Glad for the honored veteran, the truest man she had ! 
Glad for the countless little ones who crowd about his bier. 
Glad for the voice that evermore the listening world shall hear ! 

There is joy among the angels. To that bright company 

One cometh as a little child— all gladly cometh he ! 

Our Lord hath lifted off his load, hath led him to the light. 

And happy spirits, welcoming, lead up the pathway bright. 

Now shall the ransomed poet hear the holy, glorious song, 

The grand, eternal story he hath waited for so long ! 

O children ! ye who love his name, 'wait on. and watch and pray — 

In reverent thought still honor him the Lord hath called this day! 




By Fred Beverly. 


Florida, may be called the home of the alliga- 
tor. Here he finds water and climate exactly to 
his liking. Further north, the rigors of Winter 
compel him to subside into the mud. His deli- 
cately organized system cannot endure cold. 

Scattered along the Georgia coast, in the creeks 
and bayous, they are occasionally seen ; but it is 
when sailing up that wonderful river of Florida, 
the St. John, that we meet them, in constantly in- 
creasing numbers, till nearly every stretch of sandy 
shore, every half-sunken log, shows one or more. 

In the little-known creeks of the interior, and in 
the swamps of the Everglades, they fairly swarm. 
But there are not so many now as in former years, 
for travelers and hunters have- reduced their ranks, 
and rendered them shy where once they were bold. 
To the hunter of hides, more than to the tourist, is 
due the diminution, as very few are killed by the 
latter. A great trade has arisen, and declined, in 
alligator hides, and a few years ago all the native 
hunters were engaged in killing alligators. Even 
the swarthy Seminole Indian was induced to bring 
in the skin of a reptile his ancestors held in rever- 
ence and awe. 

Now, though there is little demand for their 
skins, they are irtade to yield a revenue to the na- 

tives, in various ways. Their teeth, beautifully 
carved, and mounted in gold, are offered for sale, 
and boots and shoes are made of the best portions 
of their skins ; while the small alligators are cap- 
tured, held in captivity until the departure of winter 
visitors, when they are sold and transported north. 

The alligator, although it very much resembles 
its cousin the crocodile, as you will see by the pict- 
ure on the next page, is a different animal, and is 
found nowhere but in America. It is said that a 
crocodile or two have been killed in our Florida 
waters ; but even if this is true, such instances are 
extremely rare. 

Let us commence with the alligator ab ovo, or 
from the egg, and follow him to maturity, noticing 
his peculiar traits and the methods employed in 
his capture. 

The eggs are of the size and shape of goose eggs, 
though a little more rounded at the small end, of 
a yellowish-white color. They are laid in nests 
constructed of mud and vegetable substances, which 
produce heat by fermentation, thus aiding in hatch- 
ing the eggs. 

The maternal alligator always keeps watch near 
the nest, as the male parent is very fond of young 
alligator, raw or cooked, and it requires all her 

i8 75 .] 


I I 

diligence to prevent the total destruction of her off- 
spring. As it is, the old fellow generally contrives 
to snatch up a few, though the little ones follow 
close in their mother's wake, spreading out like the 
tail of a comet. 

The young are very nimble, even on land, and 
when in the water very deceptive in appearance as 
to size. I remember catching one by the tail, 
which appeared in the water to be about a foot in 
length, but it was a three-footer that turned upon 
me when it was jerked out of the water. 

The size of the largest alligator is a matter of 
much dispute. Every native Floridian has his 
story to tell of "that big 'gator," and statements 
vary, none exceeding twenty feet, most of them 
being satisfied with eighteen. Tolerably correct 
information has been obtained of the capture of 
one sixteen feet in length, but they rarely exceed 

For my part, though I have hunted in the wild- 
est portions of Florida, I have yet to see an alli- 
gator exceeding a length of twelve feet. My guide 
and myself once captured one measuring twelve 
feet. We harpooned him as he lay at the bottom 
of the river, and it was as 
though we had hitched on to 
a whale. For half an hour he 
made the boat spin through 
the water as it never went be- 
fore. It took three shots to 
kill him, but we finally did 
it, and a steak from his tail 
was upon our bill of fare that 

Was it good ? Well, I have 
eaten better meat, meat more 
to my liking, than alligator 

The alligator, at all times, 
and under any circumstances, 
emits a disagreeable, musky 
odor, and his flesh is strongly 
impregnated with it. 

His food is — any and every- 
thing. He is as omnivorous, 
or all-eating, as a crow. Birds, 
fishes, hogs, dogs, and even 
chunks of wood, are swallowed 
by him. Whether the wood 
is swallowed for sustenance, 
or to aid digestion, the alligator alone can answer. 

The vulnerable points of an alligator are greater 
in number than is popularly supposed. The state- 
ment that a rifle-ball will flatten out upon his side 
or back is now known to be incorrect. Contrary 
to the general belief, a rifle-ball will penetrate any 
portion of the body, if it strike fair. 

Is the alligator dangerous ? That depends upon 
circumstances. The only danger to be feared from 
an alligator, on land, is in his tail. He cannot run 
rapidly, and, conscious of his inability to escape, he 
either quietly submits or lashes out furiously with 
his tail. 

They rarely leave their watery abodes, except 
from an insufficient depth of water or scarcity of 
food. They seem to scent a body of water a long 
way, for their trails to them are generally direct. 
Very few instances have come to my knowledge of 
any one being bitten by an alligator. One was of 
a man being seized by the hand, as he was stoop- 
ing to drink from a pool. It was only by the op- 
portune arrival of aid that he escaped. 

They prefer negroes to white men, and hogs and 
dogs to either. An alligator will follow on the 
trail of a dog for a long distance, and it is difficult 
for settlers near the banks of an alligator-haunted 
river or lake to keep dogs at all. 

I recall one of my adventures while hunting 
some rare water-birds. My friend and myself had 
penetrated a swamp, and had entered a place where 
the water was waist-deep, black with mud, and alive 

with alligators. It was a strange sight to me, and 
I rather shrank from proceeding any further ; but 
my friend, who had been acquainted with 'gators 
for years, said there was no danger, and we went 
in. On every side were the knotty heads and evil- 
looking eves of scores of alligators. They swam 
about us, seeminglv more from curiosity than from 




any other motive, but they gulped up our dog 
with a rapidity that set my heart a-beating. I shot 
and shot, as fast as I could, with a breech-loading 
shot-gun, but failed to disperse them. That they 
did n't eat us 1 attributed to the abundance of food 
that, in the shape of young birds, literally dropped 
from the trees into their mouths. Many were the 
birds we lost, for as they fell into the water the al- 
ligators rushed for them and seized them before we 
could get them. 

I do not think that an alligator will attack man 
unless he has him at a great disadvantage. They 
are cowardly, but know their power in the water, 
and probably would seize a man if they met him 
swimming beyond his depth. 

The following description is from the pen of 
Bartram, the botanist, who visited Florida a hun- 
dred years ago. Although he was known as an 
accurate writer, one cannot help surmising that 
here he drew the long bow a trifle : 

" Behold him rushing forth from the flags and 
reeds. His enormous body swells. His plated 
tail, brandished high, floats upon the lake. The 
waters, like a cataract, descend from his opening 
jaws. Clouds of smoke issue from his dilated nos- 
trils. The earth trembles with his thunder, when 
immediately, from the opposite coast of the lagoon, 
emerges from the deep his rival champion. They 
suddenly dart upon each other. The boiling sur- 
face of the lake marks their rapid course, and a 
terrific conflict commences. They now sink to the 
bottom, folded together in horrid wreaths. The 
water becomes thick and discolored. Again they 
rise; their jaws clap together, reechoing through 
the deep surrounding forests. * * * * My appre- 
hensions were highly alarmed after being a specta- 
tor of so dreadful a battle. It was obvious that 
every delay would but tend to increase my dangers 
and difficulties, as the sun was near setting and the 
alligators gathered round my harbor from all quar- 

ters. My situation became precarious to the last 
degree, two large ones attacking me closely at the 
same instant, rushing up with their heads and part 
of their bodies above the water, roaring terribly, 
and belching floods of water over me. They struck 
their jaws together so close to my ears as almost to 
stun me, and I expected every moment to be dragged 
out of the boat and devoured." 

Such is the story of an encounter in 1773. I 
think, however, that actual adventures of this kind 
must have been rare even then. Bartram was 
probably among the first to penetrate the dismal 
regions which are the home of the alligator. Little 
was then known of it save by actual investigation, 
and with a pioneer in those vast, lonely tropical 
forests, such sounds and sights as those which the 
odious habits of this creature afford, might easily 
inspire an undue fear of it. Certain it is, at least, 
that a century later, we find the alligator possessed 
of a much milder temper. The decrease in their 
numbers may have made them more cowardly, but 
among people who have seen much of them, I 
think that they are at this day regarded with dis- 
gust rather than with fear. 

Doubtless many of you have heard of " crocodile 
tears " — tears shed for effect only, not tears of real, 
genuine feeling. I do not know where or how 
the term originated. It may have been that the 
position sometimes assumed by the animal when 
lying upon a bank, of placing its fore-feet over or 
near its eyes, suggested the fancy to some facetious 
tourist. However, some old writers solemnly aver 
that the crocodile actually sheds tears. If he weeps 
at all, it must be to think that any one could tell 
such a story about him. 

While I am sure that alligators never weep, it 
is probable that they are sometimes the cause of 
tears in others, especially people who own nice 
little fat pigs. Alligators are extremely fond of 
fresh young pork. 


"he gave to misery all he had, a teak. 

■875 ; 




By Lucy Larcom. 

Says Ivanhoe to Mimi : 
"It is our wedding-day; 
And will you promise, dearest. 
Your husband to obey ? " 

Says Ivanhoe to Mimi : 
'• Let us to this agree, — 
I will not speak one "word to you. 
If you '11 not speak to me ; 

And this is Mimi's answer : 
"With all my heart, my dear 
If you will never cause me 
To drop a single tear ; 

" Then we shall never quarrel, 
But through our dolly-life 
I '11 be a model husband, 
And you a model wife ! " 

' If you will ask me nothing 

But what I want to do, 

I '11 be a sweet, obedient, 

Delightful wife to you." 

And now all men and women 
Who make them wedding-calls, 

Look on, and almost envy 
The bliss of these two dolls. 

Says Mr. Fenwick, giving 

His brown mustache a twist : 
: I shall command you, madam, 
To do whate'er I list ! " 

They seem so very smiling, — 
So graceful, kind, and bright ! 

And gaze upon each other 
Quite speechless with delight. 

Miss Mimi answers, frowning 
His very soul to freeze : 
"Then, sir, I shall obey you 
Only just when I please ! ' 

Never one cross word saying. 
They stand up side by side, 

Patterns of good behavior 
To every groom and bride. 

Sweethearts, it is far better, — 
This truth they plainly teach, — 

The solid gold of silence, 

Than the small change of speech; 





By Sargent Flint. 

It was the evening before Thanksgiving. 

The sun had gone down behind the hills of 
Greenville, leaving them cold and bflre against 
the dull sky. The squirrels were safe and warm 
in their own little houses, cracking nuts for their 
Thanksgiving dinner. The trees waved their tall, 
bare branches in the biting cold, but they knew 
that their roots were sheltered by the kind earth. 
The cold wind shouted a merry "good-evening" 
to everything, as he rushed over the frozen ground. 

He raced over the bare hills ; the squirrels drew 
closer together, and exulted over their crowded 
storehouse ; the trees bowed a stately good-night, 
as he whisked away ; but he calmed down as he 
met a little figure on the frozen road, and gave 
her time to draw her faded cloak tighter over her 
blue hands, before he rushed on again. 

A wagon was heard. " Rattle, rattle ! " Even 
the wagon is cold, the child thought, as she heard 
the loose spokes rattling in the wheels. 

She stepped aside for the wagon to pass ; the 
driver, a pleasant-looking man, stopped his horse, 
and asked her whither she was going. 

" To the city," answered the child. 

" To the city ! " cried the man. " Why, you will 
never get there, unless you are blown there, or I 
take you." 

"Will you take me?" she asked, not eagerly, 
but like one accustomed to refusals. 

His answer was to reach down his hand to help 
her up. 

" Now," said he, as he put her under the heavy 
buffalo-robe, " what 's your name ? " 

" Mary, — only Mary," she answered hastily. 

" Mary," said the man softly, more to himself 
than the child, " I wish it had n't been that." 

" Why, there 's lots of Marys," said the child. 

•' Yes, I know it." he said. " I had a little 
Mary last Thanksgiving. I — I don't like to see 
any one named Mary in trouble." 

"I aint crying," said the child, smiling, "be- 
cause I 'm in trouble, but 'cause I 'm so cold. I 
ought to have trouble, Granny says." 

" Ought to have trouble, hey ! " said the man, 
stopping his horse, and drawing from under the 
buffalo-robe a can of hot coffee. "That hasn't 
been off the stove more than five minutes," he 
said, as he filled a little tin cup and handed it to 
her. " Take that, and drink to your Granny ! " 

" It is very nice," she said, when she had drank 

it all. She did not say, I have tasted nothing 
before to-day. Why should she, when there had 
been so many days like this in her short life ? 

The man replaced the can, pulled the robe up 
even with her chin, and told the horse to " get 
up" and "go along;" then he whistled awhile; 
then he said, "It is mighty cold. I hope it will 
keep so ! " 

" O, don't!" exclaimed the child; "'cos it 
makes turkey cost so much, poor folks can't have 

" Don't you care anything for me ! " cried the 
man, pathetically ; " here 's my wagon full of tur- 

" I did n't know you were a turkey-man," she 
said, gently. 

" Yes. I am a ' turkey-man,' and I think even 
poor people can afford to buy a turkey once a 
year, if they are high. The turkey-men have 
been waiting a year for this day." 

There was a twinkle in his eye she did not see ; 
he looked down into the little pale face. " I am 
afraid you don't care for the turkey-men ! " he 
said, soberly. 

She hung down her head, started to say some- 
thing, but stopped. 

" Well, what is it ? " he said, laughing. 

" I do like you," she answered, earnestly; "but 
the poor people — I have known them always." 

They rode on for awhile in silence. The hot 
coffee had worked wonders ; the blue little hands 
had stopped shaking, and the child smiled as she 
saw the city lights in the distance. 

" Now you are a little more comfortable," said 
the turkey-man, "let us hear where you are 
going, and what your other name is." 

" My name is only ' Mary,' and I am going to 
find my cousin." 

" Nonsense ! " he said, a little sharply. " Of 
course you have got a name. " 

" They call me ' Mary Kent,' but I hate it, and 
I wont have it ! " she cried, passionately. 

"Why did they call you that?" he asked, 

" 'Cause my father ran away, and left me in 
Granny Cole's house, when I was little. He 
pinned a paper on my dress, that said on it, 
' Left to pay the rent.' " 

The turkey-man whistled, and asked if Granny 
Cole were good to her. 




" Pretty kind," said the child, wearily. " Any- 
way, she did n't 'spise me like Sally did." 

" Who may Sally be ?" asked the turkey-man. 

" She is Granny Cole's daughter." 

" Did Granny Cole send you alone to the city?" 
said he. watching her suspiciously. 

" She told me the other day," said the child, 
mournfully, " if I ever come home and found her 
gone, to go to the city and find my cousin. Yes- 
terday she sent me off with Sail;', an' when I come 
back Sally ran away from me, an' I could n't find 

"Are you quite sure you can find your cousin ?" 

She looked up in his face, and laid her thin hand 
on his sleeve. 

" I never saw my cousin," she said, calmly. 
" If Granny has run away from me, I have n't 
anybody I know." 

" Why, then, did you come to the city?" said 
the turkey-man, wondering where he could leave 

"I know the city best," she said; "Granny 
used to'live there, till a week ago. It is so dark 
in the country, when you have to stay alone ! 
There are the market-men, — see how bright they 
are ! " 

It was the night before Thanksgiving, in the 
city as well as in the country ; the markets shone 
as they always do the evening before the great 
feast. Never were garlands more green, never 
apples more red, or gobblers more plump. 

The turkey-man drove up and stopped. 

"Here is as far as I go, little one," he said, as 
he lifted her out and stood her safely in the bright 
light of the market. 

She was a pretty child, but pale now, with blue 
lips and shaking hands. 

" Poor little thing ! " he muttered ; " I wish they 
had n't named her Mary ; " and he entered the 

The market-men beamed on everybody. They 
rubbed their hands as customer after customer 
vanished with the cold form of some kind of fowl 
neatly covered, all but its feet, in brown paper. 

It was growing late : the turkey-man had sold 
out ; he waited only to get a hot supper before 
starting for home. He had been thinking entirely 
of dollars and cents ; but as he walked out of the 
market, he thought of his home, his wife waiting 
alone for him in the great white house, and his 
little Mary safe in God's home above— he had for- 
gotten the homeless child left alone outside the 

A heavy hand was laid on his arm " Stand 
back a moment ! " whispered a voice. He looked 
up, and saw a large policeman watching a child at 
a barrel of red apples. 

It is his little fellow-traveler ! 

" That 's a sharp youngster ! " half laughed the 
policeman, under his breath. " This sort of thing 
is going on here all the time. Nothing is safe for 
a moment." 

The little blue hand was already on an apple. 
It faltered a moment, then grasped it tightly, then 
dropped it. 

She hid her face in her hands. The turkey- 
man stepped up to her and touched her shoulder 
gently. She had not seen him; but, without 
looking up, the child knew who it was — it was the 
only friend she had. 

"I could n't do it! Oh, I could n't!" she 
sobbed. " But I 'm so hungry ! " and she fell 
against the barrel. 

The stars were shining cold and clear. The 
turkey-man's wife was looking out, and wishing 
the thermometer could go up, without the price 
of turkeys going down. "It is so cold for John 
riding from the city alone ! " she said to herself. 
She opened the door, hoping to hear the wagon ; 
but the cold wind sent her back to the blazing fire. 
She thought of a year ago, when she did not sit 
waiting alone. She imagined she heard the little 
voice, though it had been hushed nearly a year — 
how plainly she saw the sweet face, though it had 
been covered so long ! She wiped the tears from 
her eyes as she heard the rattling wheels ; John 
must not see her sad. She opened the door, hold- 
ing the lamp high above her head. 

The turkey-man came in, with something wrap- 
ped in the buffalo-robe ; he laid it on the big din- 
ing-table. " Don't say no ! " he cried ; " let us 
do something for Mary's sake, this Thanksgiv- 
ing ! " 

" Are you crazy ? " she exclaimed, as he uncov- 
ered the pale face. 

" Wait till I tell you all," said the turkey-man. 

When he had told his story, he said, earnestly, 
" How could I go to church to-morrow and thank 
God for His care of us, if I, with no little one to 
care for, had left this child alone in the great 
city ? " 

" You did right, John," said his wife ; " you 
always do." 

With these words, the woman — good, practical 
soul ! — hastened to wash the little girl's face and 
hands. Then she wanned and comforted her. 
while the kind turkey-man went to take care of 
his horse. 

" I remember this house," said the child, as she 
looked out of a large blanket before the bright tire. 
" 1 saw it one day with Granny Cole : I stopped 
and looked through the fence, and threw stones at 
the turkeys. I did n't know he was a kind man 



| November, 

then. Granny hates rich men — I wonder where lower and lower ; the pale lids closed ; the little 
Granny is — I 'm sorry 1 threw the stones — but hands grew quiet ; but the little voice repeated in 
they wasn't so very big." The little head fell sleep, " I did n't know he was a kind man." 

By Celia Thaxter. 

O TELL me, little children, have you seen her — 
The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina ? 
O, her eyes are blue as cornflowers 'mid the corn, 
And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn ! 

O buy the baby's blossoms if you meet her, 
And stay with gentle words and looks to greet her ; 
She '11 gaze at you and smile and clasp your hand, 
But no word of your speech can understand. 

Nikolina ! Swift she turns if any call her. 

As she stands among the poppies hardly taller, 

Breaking off their scarlet cups for you, 

With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue. 

In her little garden many a flower is growing — 
Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowing; 
But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay 
Is sweeter, quainter, brighter even than they. 

O tell me, little children, have you seen her — 
This baby girl from Norway, Nikolina ? 
Slowly she 's learning English words, to try 
And thank you if her flowers you come to buy. 




By Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

A MELANCHOLY little Swiss boy was Arnold, for 
he felt himself all alone in the world. His father 
and mother had been lost in the shipwreck from 
which he himself was rescued to find a home at 
last with a warm-hearted American farmer. But 
kind though every one was, nobody was his own, 
nobody remembered the same things that he did, 
or loved the same things ; and so slow was he in 
learning a new tongue, that to nobody could he 
speak of any one of all the thoughts that labored in 
his little breast. 

He did his best to please the farmer, though, who 
gave him many a kindly toned word and many an 
encouraging slap on the shoulder, while the good 
motherly farmer's wife set aside for him now a cus- 
tard and now a turnover, and little Rosa used to 
take her own custard and go and stand beside him 
to eat it in concert, as if that might lessen a little 
the loneliness which she knew he must be feeling. 
She undertook, too, to be his especial instructress 
in our language ; but as she did not know it very 
well herself, her pupil did not make progress 
enough to be proud of, and was, in fact, more 
likely to teach Rosa his own dialect than to learn 

He could, indeed, signify simple wants and call 
simple names ; but he wanted to tell of other 
things. He wanted to tell of the terrible wreck, 
and the black waves where his father and mother 
went down. He wanted to tell Rosa of his little 
sister Marie, with her eyes like Alpine violets ; of 
the echoes among the hills, the pictures in the 
lakes, the valleys full of the roar of waterfalls ; of 
the white-tipped mountains melting into heaven ; 
of all the thoughts they used to give him, — but 
nothing could he say. And when, on some clear, 
bright day, he chanced to look upward and see the 
white angle of the house against the blue of the 
sky, — or higher yet, and see a snowy cloud repos- 
ing on that blue, — then the remembrance of some 
mountain-side shining white against the sky at 
home would rush over him and bring the tears to 
his eyes : some snowy mountain-side that he never 
knew he loved so till he had lost it. Then little 
Rosa would come and slide her hand into his, and 
look at him so wistfully that Arneld would long 
more than ever for some way of telling her what it 
was of which he thought so sadly and longingly. 

" If I only had my violin that went down on the 
great ship," he would sigh to himself, " then she 
would know ! " And with that thought he began 

VOL. III.— 2. 

to count the coppers that had been given him from 
time to time, to do little odd jobs for more, to get 
a penny here and a half-dime there, till one day he 
spread them all out before the farmer and signified 
by some pantomime, a little English, and a great 
deal of what the farmer called gibberish, that he 
should like to go into town with him when he went 
to sell his vegetables. And as soon as the farmer 


got at his meaning, he took Arneld by the shoulders 
and swung him into the cart, and they plodded 
along together. Arneld told the farmer a great 
deal that morning of what he had wanted to have 
and how he intended to get it, and what he would 
certainly do with it ; but though the farmer nodded 
and nodded, not one word did he understand ; and 
when at last he set the boy down in the market- 
place and saw him dart away, he felt very much as 
an old robin must feel who by accident has had a 
young cuckoo hatched in his nest. 



It was just as the farmer was ready to mount into 
his wagon again for a good rattle home, that Arneld 
made his appearance with a little fiddle tucked un- 
der his arm. He looked at the farmer, and stood 
a moment grinning from ear to ear ; then he tucked 
the little fiddle under his chin, and began to play a 
tune, — a good lively tune, such as the peasants 
might have danced by. Clear and strong he drew 
it out, and presently the farmer was laughing and 
nodding and beating time ; and not the farmer 
only, but all the others in the market-place, and 
the boys were crowding round him and the people 
were throwing him coppers. Arneld looked at the 
coppers, amazed ; he had only meant to show the 
farmer- what he could do. But he took them, after 
a moment or two, — they would buy strings and 
varnish and rosin for the beautiful new violin he 
would make ; and he took off his cap and made a 
great bow to the people. It was his first appear- 
ance in public ; but it was not his last. Then he 
climbed into the wagon with the farmer. 

" Bad, very bad," said he, tapping the little fid- 
dle, as they went their way. 

" Good, very good," said the farmer, slapping 
his back heartily ; and thereat Arneld, though 
wincing a little under the good-natured blow, be- 
gan to tell the farmer volubly, in an indistinguish- 
able swarm of English and foreign words, how he 
should now make an excellent violin himself, the 
very least murmur of which would be enough to 
win his soul out of him the way the Lurley's voice 
won the fisherman into the stream, — and not 
making a syllable of it understood, though he went 
on unhindered, for " It does him good, and does n't 
hurt me," said the farmer. 

When "the farmer had finished his out-door work 
that night, he came into the kitchen, saying, 
" Now, Arneld, my boy, let us have a tune," suit- 
ing the action to the word, and sawing away with 
the edge of his right hand on his left arm, and 
stopping surprised to see the table covered with 
strings and pegs and fragments of cherry-wood that 
had been once cut into odd shapes, and with great 
sheets of brown paper, on which Arneld was draw- 
ing strange lines, stout Roman curves, long lovely 
Greek ones, whorls, volutes, measuring and com- 
paring and reckoning like an old astrologer. 

Little Rosa hung over his chair, her face still 
wet with her tears. " He has torn his pretty 
fiddle all to pieces ! " she cried to her father. 
And for a moment her father felt really angry, 
because, never having been in the habit of spend- 
ing much money, the fiddle had seemed to him a 
great acquisition, and its ruin was a wanton de- 
struction of property. Arneld looked up eagerly, 
though, and began, " Bad — very bad ! " 

" He means that it was a bad fiddle," cried little 

Rosa, " and that he is going to make one very 
good, — very much better." 

"Better," said Arneld, " very better," catching 
the spirit of what she said ; and there came an- 
other confusion of unknown tongues to explain to 
the farmer why cherry-wood was not as good to 
carry the vibration of the tone as maple and pine ; 
why this was so thick here as to dull the sound, 
and so thin there as to break it ; why this piece of 
wood, if you struck it, resounded in a key very 
different from the key of that piece, instead of 
resounding in tune with it; why such a line should 
be longer, and such a one should be shorter, for 
the sake of elasticity in conducting the sound; and 
how there was nothing like a good fiddle any way 
for beauty of perfect curves, — just a true lover's 
knot of lovely lines ; how those lines represented 
waves, — and music itself was waves, — and just as 
the shell repeated the murmurs of the sea, so the 
violin repeated the murmurs of the air, and made 
itself a voice ; and much more that he had learned 
at home, where his father had made the bows of 
violins, and his little sister Marie had picked the 
long and even hairs for him to fasten under their 
flat plate. And the farmer said, "Hm, hm, hm," 
as if he knew what it was all about, although he 
had n't the least idea; and having said "Hm, hm, 
hm," felt that he was compromised by a passive 
sort of consent, and must not interfere with Arneld's 
future operations. 

And what operations they were ! What a rum- 
maging in the great garret and in the barn cham- 
bers, after it had been discovered that permission 
was wanted, and it had been granted ! What a 
gathering of sections, — of here a broken bureau, 
and there a useless table-top; and in another place 
an ancient fire-board, a ruined spinning-wheel, an 
unprized box ! Then what a splitting, and shav- 
ing, and planing ! what a hollowing of tiny vault 
and arch with knife and chisel ! what a bending of 
one wood and another over the steam of the tea- 
kettle ! what a setting away in the sun, bound into 
shape and turned over and over every day ! what a 
mixing of gums and rums for varnishes, and what 
a varnishing of all the farmer's furniture, till nearly 
everything in the house was sticky, and at last the 
very varnish of all was hit upon ! And then what 
a drawing of designs, what a calculating of curves, 
what a delicate whittling into form, what a slicing, 
and paring, and mincing, till the beautiful wavy 
maple of the bottom was all in shape, till the long, 
narrow "ouies" were exactly in place in the old 
seasoned pine of the top, till the light willow was 
bent for the sides, and for the ledges that little 
Rosa called the pipings, till the rolling volute at 
the end of all was carved ! And then what a 
breathless putting together of the parts, Rosa 




hanging over the table and handing Arneld every- 
thing in the very place, and delightedly telling all 
who were near that she and Arneld were making a 
violin. And at length it was ready for the var- 
nish, — that varnish which he had gotten with so 
much trouble, taking such pains that it should not 
be too tough and hard, and so hinder the elastic 
wood from carrying its sound ; that it should not 
be too thin, and so leave the instrument unpro- 
tected from the changes of the weather ; that it 
should not be of glaring tint, and so spoil the 
beauty of the wood. With what loving strokes he 
laid that varnish on, while Rosa held the little jar 
for him ! And then at last the new violin was put 
away to mellow like an unripe pear. 

" Every day," said Arneld to Rosa, — and she ' 
really thought she understood him, — " every day 
it gains a little richer color, and every day all the 
woods put themselves one little bit more in tune 

And then they used to go and look at it ; and 
although old Jacob Steiner might have laughed at 
this little Arneld violin, they would not have 
exchanged it for one of the precious violins which 
that old Tyrolean made for the Twelve Electors of 
the Empire ! To these children that rude little 
fiddle was a part of themselves ; days, weeks, 
months had passed in its manufacture ; while at 
work upon it, Arneld had almost ceased to be 
lonesome, for the whole house had been interested 
in it ; little Rosa had been one soul with himself, 
and she had meantime learned something of his 
tongue, and he could in a way make himself 
understood in hers. 

" It wants but a single thing, — its bridge over 
which the strings shall pass," he would say, as he 
and Rosa went to look at it ; and as he was not 
particular whether he said it in his native patois, or 
in his lingo that was half his patois and half 
Rosa's, — for Rosa's English was not the very best 
in all the world, — I will translate it for you : 

" And that must be a bit, a tiny tiny bit, of old 
Swiss pine," he said, " if we can ever find it. 
And then you shall hear it hum ! It is thinking 
now what it will say,— how it will tell us of the life 
it used to live before it was a violin, the life it used 
to live when it was in the forest, when the willow 
in it set its feet in the spring brooks, when the 
maple in it burned scarlet in October, when the 
pine rustled all its pins together to hear the soft 
snow falling. It will tell us how storms sound up 
in the very tops where it used to rock, how the 
birds sing to one another in the branches, — once it 
lived the life of the woods, you know, but now it is 
like their risen soul." 

And so Arneld would run on, always ending 
with a sigh that he could not find a bit of old Swiss 

pine for his bridge, — perhaps he thought it would 
whisper of his mountains to the strings as they 
passed over, — and if Rosa had understood no 
more, she could not in the frequent hearing have 
helped understandingthat ; and she was as eager 
as Arneld for that bit of Swiss pine. 

One day the farmer's wife, in a search for some- 
thing she wanted, opened a drawer from which she 
produced various treasures, — things she had valued 
when a girl, — keepsakes, and trinkets, and her 
wedding ring, which she held far too precious for 
every-day wear. Among the rest was a little 
carved box that kept her mother's string of gold 
beads ; and no sooner did Arneld's eyes light upon 
that box than Rosa saw them sparkling with new 
light ; and when he asked to take the box in his 
hands, and turned it over and over, and gave it 
back with a long sigh, she knew that the little 
box, with its cover carved in a group of goats, was 
made of the Swiss pine, — old wood, with the right 
grain, seasoned many years. 

That afternoon Rosa brought to Arneld a bit of 
dark old wood, — it was the bottom of that box. 

" I knew she would not give it to me, and so I 
took it ; and you can make another bottom that 
will do just as well," said Rosa, whose eyes had 
become so blinded by the vision of the violin, that 
she could not see right from wrong. 

Arneld looked at her a moment in amazement, 
when he comprehended her ; and then he looked 
at the little piece of old brown wood, and looked 
and looked again, longingly. But presently he 
seized Rosa's little hand and led her back to the 
spot from which she had taken it, and began to 
put it in its place again, explaining to her, in his 
broken lingo, that the stolen wood must make a 
discord in the music that he, at any rate, would 
always hear. And while he was doing this, the 
farmer came into the room, and with a single 
glance took in the situation, — the wrong way. 

li So, sir ! so, sir ! " cried he, with a blazing face, 
" you are teaching my daughter to steal, are you ?" 

And Arneld hung down his head and never said 
a word, though the farmer was whirling him 
round by the shoulder, and Rosa was looking on 
with a white, scared face. 

But directly her mother, drawn by the loud 
tone, was coming into the room, and Rosa ran and 
hid her face in her mother's apron, crying : 

" Oh, I did it ! I did it ! And he would n't ; he 
said No ; and he was putting it back ; oh, he was 
putting it back ! " 

And two minutes after that, the precious piece 
of coveted wood was in Arneld's hands, — his own, 
his very own, — and Rosa was in the great dark 
best room, that was seldom used except for funer- 
als, hearing some heart-breaking words from her 




mother ; and then Arneld, forgetting all else, was 
at his table in the long kitchen, carving away, with 
all his heart, upon the lovely outlines of the 
bridge, as delicate as the contours of a flower. At 
last the bridge was in place, the strings were drawn 
over it, the bow was freshly rosined, — the violin 
was in tune, — the magic moment had come ! 

Softly Arneld passed the bow over the strings 
and drew out one long, slow tone to satisfy him- 
self the thing was done, hesitatingly, half afraid to 
be heard, lest, after all, it were a failure. But in 
another moment he had forgotten all about whether 
he was heard or not, as tone after tone came leap- 
ing from the strings almost as if they chose to 
crowd and come without his effort ; he had forgot- 
ten Rosa, and the farmer, and the people, — he 
thought only of the sounds that came bounding 
underneath the bow, so silvery, so strong, so clear, 
in a wild and joyous flight, as though they had 
been so long imprisoned that now they rushed into 
the free air as gladly as the rivers rush and run 
when the sun loosens their icy fetters. 

What visions filled the long, low room as he 
played ! He saw the dews dropping among the 
singing pines ; he saw the brook darken beneath 
the swaying shadow of the willow ; he heard the 
birds warble in the maple; he heard the wind 
brush all their tops together. All the sweet 
sounds that he had ever known seemed to send 
their spirits into the music that he drew from his 
violin, — the hum of bees in the blossoms, the 
laughter of children frolicking on the meadows ; 
all the half-forgotten tunes of home, the yodle of 
the shepherds echoing through the deep, dark, 
starry blue from peak to peak, the gay jangling of 
marriage peals, the slow toll of a passing bell; — 
and it appeared to him, as he played, that he saw 
the elves rocking in the flower-bells, Lurley sing- 
ing as she swept along the tide, the Wild Ladies 
riding on the wind. 

And then the melody grew slower and softer, — 
he was remembering a tune his mother used to 
sing ; there came the tinkle of the little altar-bell 
in the chapel among the crags, the praising voices 
of the choir ; and then the little chapel opened 
out into wide darkness, and Arneld was playing to 
himself the wild music of the storm, the crying 
wind, the rushing billows of shipwreck, till the 
sound seemed to rise from all the troubled chords 
and discords to the sweet and silver sonority of the 
voice that can say to the waters, ' ' Peace, be still ! " 

" Wife," said the farmer, as they sat in the best 
room and listened, — at the close of the lecture to 
poor little sobbing, repentant, and forgiven Rosa, 
— "my mother used to tell me never to turn a 
beggar from the door, as I might entertain an 
angel unawares. Do you hear yonder ? " 

"I thought," said the farmer's wife, "that I 
heard the rustle of an angel's wings beside me." 

And the next day the farmer drove into town 
and took Arneld to the parson ; and the parson 
took him to the organist ; and the organist taught 
him all he knew, till Arneld could better teach 

"he saw the brook darken beneath the shadow." 

him. And now, if you go to evening concerts, 
some time when you see a tall, fair-faced man, 
with flowing hair and dreamy eyes, begin to play, 
bending his head down lovingly to his violin, to 
play so that the violin seems to sing with a human 
voice and a human soul, you will know that it is 
Arneld, — though it is not the little rude fiddle 
that he and Rosa made, with which you will hear 
him work his wonders, but a dark and perfect in- 
strument two hundred years old ; while as for 
that magic wand, his bow, I should not dare to 
tell you how many diamonds there are in it that 
kings and queens have given him. 





By L. 

Now all who fear a sudden shock 

Of rhymes, must stand from under ! 
The tale I tell you smells of smoke, 

And mutters low of thunder ! 
It is a tale of England old, 

In times when thrones spoke louder 
Than nowadays, — of England old, 

King James, Guy Fawkes, and powder. 

King Jamie was a prudent king, 

Though more in plan than action ; 
Yet well his prudence needed was, 

For many a traitorous faction 
Held England in "those good old days" — 

So called in modern fashion, 
When present deeds and present men 

Put some one in a passion. 

Well, children ! Guy Fawkes was employed 

By some disloyal schemers, 
To blow up those who made the laws. 
" Men of perdition ! Dreamers 
Of evil ! " their stern critics said ; 
" Their every canon loaded 
With fell destruction to the land ; 

Such men should be — exploded ! " 

At last a plan grew ripe for deeds ; 

But one conspirer yielding, 
For auld lang syne's sake, warned a friend, 

In covert letter shielding 
His meaning with ambiguous phrase 

(He dared not breathe it louder). 
The friend put James upon the scent,— 

The royal nose smelt powder ! 

And so was caught the traitor Fawkes, 

Who served the plot's igniting ; 
Though in the cellar dark he thought 

To do another lighting, — 
Waiting a sign to thunder forth 

A Parliament's last meeting, 
The members of a lordly House 

For evermore unseating ! 

But he was taken, and then soon 

This traitor knave disloyal, 
And all his mates, were put to death 

By James' own mandate royal ! 
'T was very long ago, yet this 

Great treason to remember, 
The English boys in effigy 

Hang Fawkes with each November. 


By Annie J. Mackintosh. 

We are going to assist you in finding out for 
yourselves some of the wonderful things connected 
with the life and growth of plants ; and if you will 
try the simple experiments here mentioned, you 
will surely be interested, and, besides, will learn a 
great deal that you ought to know. 

Let us begin at the beginning, then ; and as 
most plants grow from seeds, we shall talk first 
about seeds. 

We will suppose that you have collected a few- 
seeds, such as may be easily obtained — peas, beans, 
grains of wheat, corn, &c. Of course, you have a 
penknife in your pocket ; and if, in addition to the 

knife, you can have a small magnifying glass, many 
of your lessons will be much more interesting. 

Take a bean first (Fig. i), 
and with your knife remove 
the skin, which is called the 
seed-coat. You find that the 
bean separates into halves as 
soon as the covering is re- 
moved. Now, each part is 
called a lobe, and seeds 
which naturally split in two 
are called two-lobed. 

Take a grain of corn, and 





treat it in the same way. It does not split ; if you 
want to part it, you must cut it. Seeds which do 
not split in two are called undivided ; and you will 
find that all seeds belong to one or other of these 

Now examine those from which you have re- 
moved the seed-coats, and you will find at the end 
of each a small worm-like ob- 
ject (Fig. i, a, and Fig. 2, a), 
which may easily be removed 
with the point of the knife. If 
you look carefully at the speci- 
men removed from the bean, 
you will be able to see that it 
bears somewhat the appear- 
ance of a little plant. Such in 
truth it is — the germ, or baby 
plant. But put your germs aside 
for awhile, and let us look at 
the rest of the seed. You will 
find in the corn that it resembles dry flour or starch, 
while in the bean it looks more like a mixture of 
flour and water which has become dry. This is 
the food of the baby plant, and consists mostly of 
sugar and starch. Upon this the germ lives till 
old enough to obtain nourishment from the earth 
and air. 

Perhaps you think it strange, if the plant and its 
food are both contained in the seed, that it is 
necessary to sow seeds in order to have them grow. 
But the plant cannot appropriate the food until it 
has been moistened. But if moisture can be ob- 
tained in any other way than from the ground, the 
seed will begin to grow just as if put in the earth ; 
and you may prove this for yourselves. 

Fill a tumbler with water, and cover the top with 




seeds have sprouted ; and they will continue to 
grow until the nourishment is exhausted. 

But let us return to the germs. Place them un- 
der the magnifying-glass, and you will find that 
some have a root, stem, and two leaves, while 
others have a root, stem, and but one leaf. You 
will also notice that all those having two leaves 
have been taken from two-lobed seeds, while those 
having only one leaf have come from the undivided 
seeds ; and you will find, when they begin to grow, 
that they present the same differences. The two- 
lobed seeds put out two leaves at first, the un- 
divided only one. So that, by looking at a young 
plant, you can tell at once from which class of seeds 


cotton-wool, on which you may place a few beans 
or some seed of the kind. Place the glass in the 
window, and in a few days you will find that your 


it has sprung ; or, looking at a seed, you will be 
able to foretell the appearance of the plant. 

Now we shall require the plants in the tumbler, 
and such leaves as you may be able to collect. 

Observe first, that although you may have placed 
the seeds in various positions upon the cotton, still 
in every case the leaves have shot upward into the 
air, while the roots have passed downward through 
the cotton into the water. Some of them have had 
to do a good deal of twisting in order to accom- 
plish it. It has been hard work, but they have 
succeeded. It is one of Nature's laws that leaves 
must go up, roots down. But how or why the 
plants should know what this law requires of them, 
we cannot tell. Experiments made upon this point 
prove that, rather than break the law, plants will 
sometimes slowly transform their parts ; that is, 
the branches of trees which have been planted up- 
side down, will in time become roots, while the 
roots will turn into branches. 

Now take the leaves which you have before you, 
and examine the veining of each, by holding it 
between your eye and the light. In some of them 
— maple, oak, and beech leaves, for instance — you 




will find the veins, or fine lines of the leaf, running 
in every direction ; while in others, as the leaves 
of the calla, lily-of-the-valley, grasses, &c, they 
are parallel to each other — that is, they run side by 
side, extending from the top of the leaf to the 
bottom, or else from the outer edge to the stem, 
which passes down the middle. The blades of 
grass and lily-of-the-valley leaves are examples of 
the first ; the calla leaf of the second. 

Look at the plants in the tumbler, and you will 
find that the leaves all come under one or other of 
these two classes ; they are either net-veined or 

Next consider the seeds ; those that are two- 
lobed have all produced net-veined leaves, while 
the leaves growing from the undivided seeds are all 

Let us sum up what we have learned in this way. 
Two-lobed seeds : Two leaves at first, net-veined 
leaves. Undivided seeds : One leaf at first, parallel- 
veined leaves. 

If you will commit these two short lists to mem- 
ory, you will often find it an advantage, as one 
point will immediately recall the others. 

But let us look once more at our young plants. 
You will notice that in the case of the two-lobed 
seeds, the lobes have grown up with the plant, and 
are now to be found one on each side of the stem 
(Fig. 4, <r, a). They have changed not only their 
appearance, but their name, since our last lesson, 
and are now called seed-leaves. Perhaps by this 
time they may have turned green ; but they will 
never resemble the other leaves in anything but 
the color. By and by they will begin to look 
shriveled, as they part with the nourishment which 
is stored in them, and when it is all gone they will 
drop off. 

Perhaps you are wondering what the plant is 
going to do after it has exhausted the food con- 
tained in the seed, but by that time it is quite able 
to support itself, by drawing upon the earth and 
the air. From the earth it obtains earthy matter 
and moisture : from the air, some of the gases of 
which it is composed ; and these three things con- 
stitute the food of the plant. 

A little later we shall tell you something of the 
manner in which the food is obtained and pre- 







By Cyrus Martin, Jr. 

Barry very much liked being called " Mother's 
Boy." I am not so certain that he would not have 
also liked the name of " Father's Boy," if that title 
could have been given him. But it so happened 
that Barry's father was a sea-captain, and was off 
on foreign voyages so much that 
Master Barry sometimes said, with a 
pout, that he* might as well have no 
father. So he was called "Mother's 
Boy," and he was tolerably well con- 

But when Barry went to Sagadunk 
with his mother the case was different. 
At home, in the city, he went to walk 
or ride with his mother, and together 
they visited the galleries where pict- 
ures and many other beautiful and 
curious things were to be found. At 
Sagadunk, where the coast is very 
rocky, the water deep, and the past- 
ures boggy, Barry would have had 
great delight if his mother could only 
climb and wade as he did. But the 
fact was that his mother could neither 
climb nor wade. I am sorry to add 
that she could not swim a stroke. 
Evidently her early education had 
been neglected. 

In the city, you see, the fact that 
this lady was so ignorant and incapa- 
ble had never been brought out. It 
was a great surprise to Barry when he 
discovered it. And as he lay on the 
rocks, one day,' looking wistfully out 
to sea, he said softly to himself: 

" My gracious ! to think that my 
precious mamma can't swim 1 " 

He had thought that his mother 
could do everything ; and he added, by way of 
explanation to himself: "I don't believe women 
were made to swim, anyhow." On the subject of 
wading he was not quite so clear. It was possible 
for her to wade ; but evidently she did not like it. 

Now, Mrs. Dingle was not willing that Master 
Barry should go wandering about the cliffs by him- 
self, scrambling into places where she could not 
climb, and wading out to the rocks where the lim- 
pets, sea-weed and kelp grew so lovely and thick. 
You have seen a hen stand on the brink of a pond 
when her little ducklings paddle away from her on 

the smooth surface ? Pretty little Mrs. Dingle 
used to laugh to herself and think of the mother- 
hen's distress, as she called after Barry when he 
waded out to the reef, in the bright sea-water, and 
secured such a prize as a comical little crab, or a 


coral-like star-fish, hiding in the crevices of the 
rock. She would cry out : 

"Yes, yes, it is very curious, Barry; bring it 
here. I am afraid the tide is rising." 

Barry was a duckling who sometimes preferred 
staying in the water. 

I don't know what Barry thought about it, but 
his mother often felt that " Mother's Boy " was 
growing out of her reach. He had been brought 
up at her side. It gave her a little pang to see 
him restive when she tried to keep him there. And 
it must be said that when Barry climbed up to the 


"mother's boy" at sea. 


ledge called the " White Boar," and sat looking off 
on the ocean, he had a vague longing to be out on 
that lovely sheet of water, shining in the sun, tum- 
bling into bright green waves, and stretching so 



far, so far, down to the sunset, where the red rays 
blurred out the horizon. Somewhere beyond that 
crystal gate in the south was his father's big ship — 
sailing among the spice islands, may be ; or gliding 
by shores where strange birds and beasts and 
painted savages were dotted along, as in the pict- 
ures of a geography. 

The Sagadunk fishermen used to go out of the 
harbor early in the morning and return late at 
night. Barry sometimes saw them from his cham- 
ber window as he dressed himself at sunrise. They 
spread their sails like wings ; the soft morning 
breeze sprang up ; and so they sailed away and dis- 
appeared down the far-off horizon. They seemed 
to sail into the sky. 

One day, Barry privately inquired of " Old 
Kutch," who was a famous fisherman of Sagadunk, 
if he ever saw his father's ship, the Flying Fish, 
out at sea. The old fisherman said : " Never, so 
far as I knowed of," which was not satisfactory to 
Master Barry. He thought that "Old Kutch" 
must see the whole world when he got below that 
dim horizon. 

" I know my papa's ship, and if I were to go 
with you I might show her to you, and find my 
papa," said Barry. 

Old Kutch laughed. "But your mar would n't 
let you go so far away, my little man." 

Barry's countenance fell, but he explained : 

" She would be so glad if I brought back my 
papa, that she would n't care if I did go without 
her knowing it." 

Barry was on dangerous ground for " Mother's 

After many mysterious talks and movements, 
which took several days, Old Kutch agreed that 
Master Barry should get up early some fine morn- 

ing, and steal away to the boat at the wharf. At 
night, Barry scarcely slept at all; and when he 
dreamed, it was of curious and often frightful sights 
in foreign lands. When day broke, he was in such 
haste that he scarcely dressed himself. He might 
have gone out at the door ; but, creeping past his 
mother's chamber, he got out by the hall-window, 
stole down through the orchard, scrambled over 
the stone wall, slid down the bank, and was soon 
on board the Polly Ann, commanded by Captain 

It was a great adventure. He was going to sea 
in search of his father. His heart was a little 
heavy when he looked back at the old farm-house 
where he had left his mother. But the Polly 
Ann was under way. and, with a curious sort of 
feeling in his throat, he watched the village fade 
away. He was at sea. 

It would not be pleasant for me to tell you of all 
the troubles that befell Master Barry that day. In 
the first place, he was very hungry ; and he ate a 
great deal of a nice luncheon which one of the 
fishermen produced from a big basket, strangely 
like one of his mamma's. Then, when he had 
satisfied his hunger, his luncheon did not agree 
with him at all, He felt very queer. Everything 
seemed going around. His stomach was all in a 

"when he dreamed." 

whirl. He was sea-sick, and he lost all interest in 
what was going on about him. The Polly Ann 
was very lively, and, although she was anchored 
on the fishing-grounds, she bounced about at a 




great rate. The sun was hot, and, as Barry looked 
over the edge of the bulwark where he lay, he saw 
nothing but horrid, tumbling waves everywhere. 
No land in sight, unless a low cloud on the dull, 
gray horizon were land. He was homesick ; and 
if he cried silently behind the ill-smelling tarpaulin 
that screened him, I do not think any of my boy- 
readers should laugh at him. I have been in just 
such a plight, and probably did just as Barry did. 

What was worse, there was no sign of the Flying 
Fish, or anything that looked like her. Once 
in a while, a brown sail crept up from the horizon, 
drifted along against the sky, and melted away into 
the dim distance. It was " a Down-East coaster, 
loaded with lime," Old Kutch would say, unless he 
was too busy with his fish to say anything. Barry 
only wanted to get home once more. 

" Oh, what will my .poor, dear mamma say?" he 

" You oughter thought of that afore," Captain 
Kutch made answer. And so he should have. 

Meantime, was Mrs. Dingle going up and down 
the beach, crying out for her "Mother's Boy?" 

thing as sea-sickness and discomfort in all the 
world. She was possibly thinking of the hen and 
her willful duckling. 

That night, when the stars came out and the 
Polly Ann drifted up Sagadunk harbor, the most 
tired, weary and homesick little chap you ever 
heard of, scrambled out into the small-boat which 
was to take him ashore. Mrs. Dingle, somehow, 
happened to be on the landing ; and when Barry 
jumped into her arms and cried, " I could n't find 
papa ! " she only hugged him tight and whispered, 
"Mother's Boy !" 

It seemed an age to Barry since he had been 
gone. The familiar little bed, with its blue-and- 
white check cover, looked like an old friend from 
foreign parts ; and the hollyhocks in the parlor 
fire-place were fresher and brighter by candle-light 
than any hollyhocks he ever saw. 

I need not tell you how Barry settled affairs with 
his mamma. When he found Old Kutch, after 
that, one leisure day ashore, that venerable skipper 
asked him when he proposed going again on a 
voyage of discovery. Barry replied : 



Strange to say, she was doing nothing of the sort. 
She sat at the gable window that overlooked the 
sea, and, as she sewed or read, she glanced out 
over the sapphire waters of the bay, and over the 
shining waves that rippled toward the sunset as 
brightly and silvery as though there were no such 

" I shall not be so naughty and run away again, 
for I am ' Mother's Boy,' you see." 
" Why, she knowed it all the time." 
And so she did ; and when she let Barry go off 
in charge of Old Kutch, she was trying two experi- 
ments — one on herself and one on ' ' Mother's Boy. " 





By Joel Stacy. 


V'RY little grape, dear, that clings unto a vine. 
Expects some day to ripen its little drop of wine. 
Ev'ry little girl, I think, expects in time to be 
Exactly like her own mamma — as grand and sweet and free ! 
Ev'ry little boy who has a pocket of his own, 
Expects to be the biggest man the world has ever known. 
Ev'ry little piggy-wig that makes its little wail, 
Expects to be a great, big pig with a very curly tail. 
Ev'ry little lambkin, too, that frisks upon the green, 
Expects to be the finest sheep that ever yet was seen. 
Ev'ry little baby-colt expects to be a horse ; 
Ev'ry little pup expects to be a dog, of course. 
Ev'ry little kitten pet, so tender and so nice, 
Expects to be a grown-up cat and live on rats and mice. 
Ev'ry little fluffy chick, in downy yellow drest, 
Expects some day to crow and strut, or cackle at its best. 
Ev'ry little baby-bird that peeps from out its nest. 
Expects some day to cross the sky from glowing east to west. 

Now ev'ry hope I 've mentioned here will bring its sure event, 
Provided nothing happens, dear, to hinder or prevent. 


(Transmuted from the German.) 

By Abby S. Alger. 

Chapter I. 


THERE was once a little girl, whose name was 
Beata. She was only five years old, but she was a 
good, clever little girl. On her birthday, her old 
aunt made her a present of a doll who was a real 
beauty. There was not a fault to be found with 
the dear creature, except that perhaps her left eye- 
brow was drawn up a tiny grain too high. 

"It's just as if she were frowning a little bit 
with one eyebrow. Isn't she pleased?" asked 
Beata, when she first took her into her arms. 

" Oh, yes," said aunty, " but she does n't know 
you yet. She always raises her eyebrow a little 

when she tries to examine any one carefully. She 
only wants to see if you are a good little girl." 

"Yes, but now she sees that I am; for I think 
her brows look just alike," said Beata. 

The doll grew very dear to her, almost dearer 
that even little Marie and Louise, although they 
were her best friends. 

One day she went into the yard with her doll. 
She had given her a name now, and they had be- 
come trusty allies. The doll was called Beata too, 
because that was the little girl's own name, and be- 
cause aunty was called Beata. It was Spring time, 
and in one corner of the yard, round a pond, there 
was a nice green plat, with thick, soft grass ; and 
in it grew a low, bushy willow- tree covered all over 




with the yellow tassels which, you know, German 
children call goslings. And they do look like gos- 
lings, for every one has soft yellow down on it, and 
will float on the water, but then they can't move. 
So big Beata — to be sure she was only five years 
old, but still she was much bigger than the other — 
and little Beata agreed that they would pull the 
goslings from the tree and throw them into the 
pond, for they knew they would like it as well as 
the big goslings did, which they had seen swim- 
ming about there. It was really big Beata who 
made the proposal, but little Beata said nothing to 
the contrary; for no one can think how intelligent 
and good-natured she always was. So big Beata 
climbed up into the willow-tree and gathered the 
cunning yellow goslings into her white apron, and 
then she counted them, and when she had counted 
as far as twenty-two, she said that now she thought 
they had enough, and little Beata never said a 
word against it. She came down again, and that 
was very hard work, because she had to hold her 
apron together with one hand all the time. She 
fancied that little Beata called out to her to drop 
the goslings down on the grass, but she dared not, 
for fear they would hurt themselves in the fall. 

Then they both ran to the pond, and big Beata 
helped her friend to fasten her legs close between 
two of the palings round it, so that she could stand 
there comfortably and watch the dear little goslings 
swimming about in the water. One gosling after 
another slipped in, and as they approached the 
water, they seemed to come to life and begin to 
move a little. That was fun ! Big Beata clapped 
her hands at the darling wee little downy birds, 
and when she just helped little Beata a tiny bit, 
she clapped her hands too. But soon all the gos- 
lings lay quite still and would not stir. That was 
very stupid, and Beata asked her little namesake 
if she did not think she (big Beata) could lean over 
the edge of the pond a little and blow on them, for 
then she truly believed they would come to life 
again. Little Beata did not answer. 

So big Beata bent over the pond and blew on the 
nearest ones. Yes ! that was right — they began to 
move at once. But those which were farthest away 
lay quite still. " Some of them are very silly !" 
said Beata, and she leaned far, far over the edge ; 
her hand slipped on the wet railing and — plump ! 
she fell right into the water ; it was very, very cold, 
and it closed over her head and carried off her 
straw hat ; she had no time to hear whether little 
Beata screamed, but she felt sure she did. When 
her head rose above the water again, she saw her 
dear friend little Beata standing, mute with alarm, 
staring at her, with her right hand extended over 
the water. Big Beata hastily grasped it, and little 
Beata made herself as stiff as she could and stood 

fast between the palings and held her dear friend 
up. So she kept her face above water long enough 
to give a shriek of terror, and her father and 
mother both came running to her ; they were pale 
with fear and pulled her out. She was dripping wet, 
the water streamed from her, and she was so fright- 
ened and cold that her teeth chattered. Her father 
was going to carry her right into the house ; she 
begged him for mercy's sake to take little Beata 
too, lest she should fall into the pond also. " For 
it was she who saved. me," she said. 

Beata was put to bed, and little Beata had to lie 
beside her. When she grew sleepy and had said 
her " Our Father," she patted her little friend and 
said: "lean never thank you enough for saving 
me from the horrid, deep pond, dear little Beata. 
Of course I know that our Lord helped you to 
stand fast between the pales and to make yourself 
stiff; but still it was you and no one else, who 
reached me your hand, so that I did not sink to the 
bottom, and for this you shall be my best friend as 
long as I live, and when I grow big you shali stand 
god-mother to my first daughter ; she shall be 
named little Beata like you." Then she kissed the 
little one and fell asleep. 

But big Beata had a brother, who was still bigger 
than she ; he was eight years old, and was a wild, 
unruly fellow. His name was Viggo ; he had read 
in an old history book about a horrid, bearded Vik- 
ing, who had the same name, and who sailed frqm 
land to land and killed people, and often took pris- 
oners, and all the gold and silver he could find, on 
board his ship. And so Viggo got himself a little 
axe, such as he read the old Viking had, and told 
his sister that henceforth she must call him Viggo 
Viking, for that was what he meant to be when he 
grew up. He chased the hens and ducks in the 
yard and tried to cut off their heads with his axe ; 
they shrieked and ran away, which made the little 
Viking all the bolder. But when he went into the 
goose-fields with his axe on his shoulder and raised 
his war-cry, the old gander grew angry, bent his 
long neck and snapped at Viggo Viking's legs so 
savagely that he dropped his axe and ran howling 
away. For the old gander knew that Vikings had 
no right to cut off heads in their own country, not 
even on the farthest side of the goose-pond. 

One day Viggo Viking came to his sister, looking 
very fierce ; he had a paper helmet on and was 
scowling furiously. 

" Now, I 'm going to carry off somebody. I 've 
come out on purpose," said he. " You are too big, 
but I shall certainly take little Beata. I shall carry 
her a great way off, at least to the plowed field, 
and perhaps as far as the pasture. And you will 
never see her again as long as you live." 

"You're a bad boy, and do nothing but mis- 

»8 7 s] 


2 9 

chief; mother said so, too, only the other day," re- 
plied his sister. " Little Beata never did a single 
thing to plague you ; she never even said a cross 
word to you." 

" Not done anything to plague me !" said the 
Viking. ''Didn't she stand down in the yard 
under the big geranium in the flower pot, when I 
came and fastened my wooden horse there ? Don't 
you suppose I saw how she pushed the horse so 
that he fell down and broke his left hind leg? If I 

and that she might not be wet when it rained or 
dew fell, her big friend laid a green grassy turf 
over her. There little Beata had to sit alone, but 
it was no great hardship, for she had her cloak, 
which she could put on at evening when it grew 
cold, and a sugar-cake on a little mound beside her, 
and the roses smelt sweet about her. Then big 
Beata bade her good-bye and good-night, and told 
her to be quiet, and to be sure not to stir out, for 
fear Viggo Viking should set eyes on her ; big Beata 


did my duty I should cut off her head," said the 
Viking, trying the edge of his little axe with his 

"Oh! you really are a dreadful boy," cried 
Beata, "but I shall contrive to hide little Beata so 
snugly that you can never set your bloody hands 
on her. You may trust me for that." 

Then she went straight to her little friend and 
told her with great distress what a wicked villain 
Viggo was, and that he meant to murder her, and 
that she, big Beata, dared not keep her in the 
house another day. " But I know where I '11 hide 
you, so that he never can find you." 

She took the little one and went across the field 
to a great pile of stones. On the top of this grew 
a briar rose in full bloom, the flowers drooping to 
the ground on all sides. It formed a sweet-smell- 
ing little bower of green twigs, and there little 
Beata was to live securely, sitting on a grassy couch ; 

promised most faithfully to visit her next morning to 
see how she had slept and how she was getting on. 
Next morning Beata only stopped to wash her 
little face before she ran to her friend ; she hardly 
took time to braid her hair. She was very much 
afraid that little Beata had lain awake and been 
frightened, because she was alone in her leafy hut 
at night. Beata hurried as fast as she could and 
reached the bush quite breathless and exhausted. 
But imagine her horror ! Outside the bower lay 
little Beata, her head was chopped off and lay at 
her feet. Viggo Viking was the guilty one, as 
Beata but too plainly saw ; for he had left his little 
axe behind him on the heap of stones. Big Beata 
had never been so wretched in the whole course of 
her existence. She burst into tears, snatched up 
her little friend and kissed her again and again. 
Then she dug a grave beneath the briar rose and 
laid her in it. She set her head on her shoulders 




again, and spread the grassy turf which had shel- 
tered her in life softly and lightly over her. And 
after that she went slowly and mournfully home. 

Who would be her best friend now ? who would 
never have any will but hers? 
and who would stand godmother 
to her first daughter, when she 
grew big ? 

Chapter II. 


Beata had now grown two 
whole years bigger, but she had 
never found a doll to equal little 
Beata. None were so good and 
obedient, and none so neat and 
pretty — all her dolls were too 
rosy-cheeked, or else they had 
no idea of dressing themselves 
properly ; they were all stiff and 
unnatural when they tried to 
move their arms or legs, and it 
was almost useless to try to have 
any conversation with them. 
They were like the dolls in a 
story she had read, whose moth- 
ers had to whip them every 
Monday morning to keep them 
good through the week. But 
Beata had a lovely doll-house 
now, with chairs and tables and 
a chest of drawers in one corner. 

It was Saturday, and on Sun- 
day Beata expected her friends 
Marie and Louise to make her 
a visit, so she wanted to make 
the baby-house look as pretty 
as possible. All the furniture 
was set in order, and juniper and 
yellow dandelions were strewn 
on the floor; but still she needed a few trifles to set 
on the chest of drawers. 

Beata knew what she would do. She remem- 
bered seeing on the hill behind the house the love- 
liest little snail shells imaginable, round and smooth, 
and spotted with yellow and brown. They would 
look splendidly on the chest of drawers, if she could 
only find some that had n't any snails in them. 
She ran to the spot and crept about among the 
hazel bushes and under the walnut trees on the hill, 
and found empty snail shells by the dozen. But 
the best of all was. that she heard a bird cry out 
very oddly right down in the marsh ; she peeped 
out between the green branches and saw a big, big 
bird swimming there ; it had a long blue neck and 
white breast, but its back was bright black. It 

swam away over the marsh so fast that it left a 
wake in the water behind it, and then suddenly it 
dived down under the water and disappeared. 
Beata stood gazing at the water, watching for it 


to come up again, but she waited and waited, and 
no bird came. She began to be afraid that the 
dear thing was drowned ; then she saw it pop up 
far away, almost midway out in the water. It beat 
its wings about so that great rings spread around 
it wider and wider on the smooth surface. Then 
it swam again, very slowly, toward a wee little green 
island, which lay there. When it reached the 
island, it stretched its neck in the air and looked 
about in every direction, and then crept into the 
tall reeds which overhung the edge. Beata stood 
and looked at the beautiful little island ; it was 
lovely and small, and oval in shape, with tiny bays 
running into it here and there. There were ozier 
bushes on the grass in spots, and at one end grew 
a slender white birch. Beata thought she had 




never seen anything so charming as this little green 
island out on the smooth, dark water, 

At last the evening breeze began to blow and to 
ripple the water. Then Beata knew that she must 
hurry home ; she stooped to pick up a few more 
snail shells to give to Marie and Louise, for there 
were some right at her feet ; she looked up again 
and peered through the bushes to bid the island 
good-night — only fancy ! the little green island 
was gone ! She could not believe her own eyes ; 
she thought that she must have moved without 
knowing it, so that the bushes hid the island from 
her ; but no, she was in the self-same spot. She 
thought of mermaids and fairies and ran up the hill 
as fast as she could. But when she reached the 
top she looked around again. She was even more 
astonished than before, for now she caught sight of 
the little green island, but far from the place where 
she first saw it ; it was sailing slowly across the 
marsh in the southerly breeze, and the little white 
birch was the sail. 

As soon as Beata reached home she told Anne, 
the nurse, what she had seen. Anne knew the 
floating island well ; it had been in the marsh for 
many a year. Every year a loon built her nest 
there, and Anne had her own opinion, both about 
the loon and the island ; but when Beata teased to 
know more, old Anne only shook her head ; for she 
was not one to tell all that she knew. At last she 
yielded, and said that if any one stands on the 
floating island, and takes the loon's egg from the 
nest for a moment, and wishes something, it will 
surely come to pass, if the loon does not forsake 
her nest, but hatches the egg in peace. 

" If the loon sits on her nest till Autumn, even 
if you wished to become an English princess, it 
will certainly happen," said old Anne. " But there 
is one thing more to be remembered. That you 
must not say a single word about it to any living 
creature. " 

"Not even to your father and mother?" asked 

"No," answered Anne, "nor to any mother's 
son or daughter." 

Beata thought of nothing but the island the whole 
evening, and when she fell asleep she dreamed of 
nothing else all night. 

As soon as she was up in the morning, she 
begged her father very prettily to row Marie and 
Louise and herself out to the floating island when 
they came that afternoon, and he promised to do 
so. But he also asked what made her think of it, 
and what she wanted to do there. At first she 
was going to tell him all; but she remembered 
Anne's words, and did not tell him all, but only 
that she longed to go there, because the little green 
island looked so cunning. 

"Yes, it is pretty, and you shall see a loon's 
nest there too," said her father, stroking her brown 

Beata grew quite red in the face and tears came 
into her eyes ; for she knew about the loon's nest 
very well, and felt that she had deceived her father, 
and that she had never done before. 

In the afternoon her father took the three little 
girls to the marsh. 

The water was calm, dark and bright ; the pine 
wood on one shore and the green hill on the other 
were reflected upside down in it. Here and there 
were broad green leaves, and big, shining white 
marsh flowers, swimming on the dark water. 
Beata's friends thought it was the most delightful 
sight in the world, and begged her father to stop and 
fish up some of the lovely flowers for them. But 
Beata only longed for the floating island. 

There it lay in the midst of the marsh, and 
when they approached it it looked as if there were 
two small islands, one above and one below the 
water, the last almost more beautiful than the first. 
The father rowed close up to it and around it, and 
when they came to the other side the loon jumped 
suddenly out of the rushes into the water and 
dived down. 

" Here is the loon 's nest," said the father, and 
steered the raft that way. 

The girls bent over the raft while the father held 
them, one by one, and they were indeed delighted ; 
the nest was right on one corner of the island, 
among the grass, and on the bottom of it lay two 
big grayish-brown eggs with black spots, bigger 
than any goose-egg. 

Marie and Louise shouted and laughed, but 
Beata was very still and shy. She begged her 
father to let her stand on the island, only for one 
minute and take one of the loon 's eggs in her 
hand, " so that she could see it better," she said. 

Her father would not refuse, lifted her in his 
arms and placed her on the floating turf, but told 
her that she must only touch the egg with her fin- 
ger tips, for else the bird would know that some 
one had meddled with it and would never hatch 
the young one out. 

So there stood Beata at last on the green floating 
island ! and she grew pale with excitement as she 
stooped to pick up the grayish-brown egg. She 
took it between two fingers. Now she could have 
whatever she chose ! What do you think she 
wished? To become an English princess? No, 
she knew something much better than that ; her 
lips moved and she murmured softly : 

" I wish that little Beata teas safe and sound, 
and sitting under the briar rose again .'" 

But just at that moment the loon rose up close 
by her; and when she saw Beata standing by her 




nest with an egg in her hand, she gave such a 
shrill, shrill scream, that, in her alarm, Beata 
dropped the egg. It fell into the nest right upon 
the other, and — crash ! they both broke in two, so 
that the yokes spirted out. 

Beata stood petrified, with the right hand, which 
had held the egg, still upraised, until her father 
lifted her on to the raft again. Then the tears 

gushed from her eyes and she told him the whole 
story; but she promised faithfully that it should 
be the last time, as it was the first, that she would 
be so . naughty a girl. Her father said that that 
was a good resolve, which he hoped she would 
always keep, and then he rowed them to shore. 

But the loon forsook her nest from that time forth, 
and the green island has grown fast to the land. 


(No. V.) 

LITTLE Dutch Gretchen sat in the kitchen, 

Eating some nice sauerkraut, 
When the little dog Schneider 
Came and sat down beside her, 

And little Dutch Gretchen went out. 





By Donald G. Mitchell. 

YOU have all heard, I dare say, of the French 
Revolution. But do you know how it came about, 
and what its terrors were ? 

It came about because there had been a great 
many wicked kings and wicked nobles in France, 
who had lived only for their own selfish ends, and 
had considered the people as beasts of burden to 
be used to help them forward for pleasure-seeking 
and for money-getting. If they wanted war for 
any ambitious purpose of their own, whole regions 
were desolated, and sons and fathers and husbands 
swept away down the bloody path that war always 
makes. If they wanted service of any kind — 
whether honest labor or vile labor — children were 
torn from parents, and new-married wives from 
their husbands. But the poorest of the French 
people were so ignorant, and had lived in a state 
of slavish dread of those who were above them in 
rank for so long a time, that perhaps they would 
have borne their trials longer if it had not happened 
that very many among the richer people and the 
better educated ones suffered too, by reason of 
quarrels with the nobles, or quarrels among them- 
selves, or abuses from the king or his courtiers. 
Among the most fearful of these abuses were those 
which were committed under the authority of what 
were called lettres du cachet, or letters with the 
royal seal. Throughout the reigns of Louis XIV. 
and of Louis XV. this sort of tyranny was com- 
mon. Thus, if a noble bore a grudge against some 
neighbor, or had a fierce quarrel with some old-time 
friend, and wished to take him out of the way, he 
would apply to the king or to a royal minister and 
beg or buy an order with the royal seal upon it, 
and send a file of soldiers or an officer to seize — 
under authority of this royal order — his enemy, and 
thrust him into a prison of the state, where he 
might languish for years, without any communica- 
tion afterward with wife or children or friends. 
Friends or family would not know, indeed, whither 
he had gone ; and so secretly would the work be 
done, that they would not know when or by whom 
he was torn away. Sometimes an old, white-haired 
man, who had been almost forgotten, would sud- 
denly appear among his friends again, after twenty 
years of dungeon life. 

If you should ever read Mr. Dickens' " Tale of 
Two Cities," — and it is one of the strongest stories 
he wrote, and well worth your reading, — you will 

VOL. III.— 3. 

find a most thrilling narrative of such a long im- 
prisonment of a French physician, who was torn 
away from his young wife, and for sixteen long 
years never heard if she were alive or dead. No 
wonder that his mind gave way, and that when 
he found liberty at last he was a poor decrepit 
shadow of a man. 

There is also another terrible story of abuse 
under these lettres du cachet, which is said to be 
wholly true, and which appeared in a book called 
" Letters from France," by Helen Maria Williams, 
an English lady who passed much time in France 
before the Revolution, and who was herself a pris- 
oner in the Temple under the rule of Robespierre. 
Her story was about a black-hearted father, who, 
under cover of one of these kingly orders or letters, 
caused his own son, who had offended him, to be 
snatched away from his family, and to be buried in 
a dungeon for years. In fact, there was hardly 
any crime against persons that might not be per- 
mitted under shelter of one of those terrible " let- 
ters" of the king. 

What would you think, pray, if General Grant, 
or General Sherman, or Mr. Fish, might issue a 
letter, with the State seal affixed, which would em- 
power any marshal or politician, or whoever might 
gain possession of the letter, to seize upon any 
enemy of his at dead of night, and bear him off to 
prison, and keep him there so long as he might 
choose ? Would not such a power, unchecked by 
any courts of justice or by law, make of our coun- 
try, or of any country, a very doleful place to live 

And can you wonder that those poor people in 
that far-away country of France, and in that far- 
away time (nearly a hundred years now), should 
have chafed under it, and talked bitterly and threat- 
eningly, until after awhile their angry and threaten- 
ing talk grew into a great tempest that swept 
through the Paris streets like a whirlwind ? 

No wonder they were maddened ; no wonder 
their passion got the better of their judgment ; no 
wonder the population, led' on by enraged fanatics, 
worked deeds of cruelty which made all Europe 
shudder. Very great and disorderly wrongs are 
almost always balanced, sooner or later, by very 
great and disorderly avengement. 

When that tempest of madness I was speaking 
of just now first swept through the streets of Paris 




(in the reign of Louis XVI.), it drove the crazed 
people in herds to glut their vengeance upon those 
who were keeping captives in chains within the 
great prison of the Bastille. It was indeed a grim 
and dismal-looking building upon the borders of 
Paris, with sluggish water around it, and its door 
was entered by a draw-bridge. Toward the frown- 
ing walls of this prison (there is only a tall bronze 
column upon the spot now) the populace of the 
city rushed headlong, with whatever weapons they 
could lay hands upon. Butchers took their cleav- 
ers, stable-men their forks, carters their heavy 
oaken stakes, carpenters their axes ; and there were 
thousands with guns and cutlasses, and there were 
brawny women with heavy pistols. The soldiers 
who guarded the prison were so frightened by the 
sights and sounds of this tempest of the people's 
fury, that they could hardly make any opposing 
fight at all. The governor of the prison, seeing 
what mad rage he must encounter, would have 
blown up the huge building altogether, and had 
actually laid the match to do so, but the soldiers 
rebelled and forced him to surrender. Then the 
raging mob flowed in, and those who wore the 
uniform of the king were smitten to death, and 
dungeon-gates were unlocked, and prisoners stag- 
gered out who had not seen the day for dozens and 
scores of years. 

A beautiful girl was caught sight of flying down 
one of the great stair-ways, and she was straight- 
way seized upon by those who believed her to be a 
daughter of the governor, and would have been 
burned in the court-yard had not a few generous 
soldiers stolen her away and secreted her until the 
sack was over. As for the governor, who was a 
marquis and the king's friend, they cut off his head 
and bore it bleeding from the top of a pike-staff all 
down the street ; and all down the street poured 
the mad, rejoicing rabble, slaying many another 
as they went, and carrying the trophies with them 
— gory heads on pikes, or gory heads on chafing 
dishes carried by women. 

As it was that day so it was on many a day there- 
after, and for many a week and month ; and for 
years whoever was a noble, dr friend of the hated 
nobles, — or rich, or friend of the hated rich, — 
lived, if he lived at all in that city of revolution, in 
great dread and danger. 

There was not much feeling at the first against 
Louis XVI., for he was a far better king than those 
who had gone before him. He was kindly at heart, 
and what we might call nowadays a gentlemanly, 
amiable man, with not much force of character, 
and disposed to yield to the opinions of those who 
had been his old advisers. These, by their ob- 
stinacy, brought him very soon to grief. The 
people forced him to trial, and there was a forced 

condemnation. His head, too, fell before the fury 
of the enraged people, and was held up by the 
executioner upon the scaffold for the thronging 
mob to look upon. 

This poor king had left behind him in the prison 
a son, whom he had taught, as he best could in 
those dreary prison hours, arithmetic and geogra- 
phy. Do you think the boy ever forgot those les- 
sons, or ever forgot the sorrow and the loud wait- 
ings of his mother, the queen, when the king went 
out to his bloody death ? 

A little after this, those crazy ones, who were 
governing France so madly in this time, gave over 
this prince boy to the care of a shoemaker and his 
wife, to whom they furnished a lodgment in the 
prison for this purpose ; and they did this in order, 
as they said, that the bringing up of the boy might 
be as low as that of the lowest of the people. Poor 
boy ! poor prince ! 

A little later, Marie Antoinette, the queen, was 
taken out of her dungeon to go to trial. They 
called it a trial, for the sake of decency ; but I 
think they knew how it would end before they 
called on her to appear. If the judges before 
whom she stood had said she was innocent and 
must go free, I am sure that the wives of the wine- 
sellers, and the fish-women, and the hags of Paris 
would have snatched her away and carried her off 
to execution, if they had not slain her with their 
own bread-knives in the street. 

These mad people had such a thirst for blood ! 

It was better, perhaps, that the judges should 
say the Queen must be beheaded (as they did), 
than that these wild women should cut her in 

She certainly died an easier death by the guillo- 

You don't know what the guillotine is ? 

It is simply a great knife sliding in grooves 
between two upright posts, which by its fall severs 
the head from the body in an instant ; and it is 
the most humane way of executing capital punish- 
ment — if there be any humanity about it. 

The machine was called Guillotine, after a Dr. 
Guillotin, who, in the French Assembly in 1791, 
proposed a better way of cutting off people's heads 
than the old way of doing it by an axe ; which he 
said was a clumsy way, and clumsy headsmen 
sometimes made bad work of it. But Dr. Guillo- 
tin was not the inventor, as some books will tell 
you ; nor did he lose his own head by it, as other 
books will tell you. 

In 1792, the question of finding some new way 
of execution was referred to Dr. Antoine Louis, 
the Secretary of the College of Surgeons, and he 
advised such a method as had been hinted at by 
Dr. Guillotin the year before. So, then they had 

i8 7 5-l 



a machine made for trial by one Schmidt, who 
was a knife-maker. And they tried it on a body 
or two, and found it worked so well that they 
adopted it; and people called it at first " Louisette." 
But Dr. Louis said he did n't invent it or make it. 
(Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, which is so 
rarely wrong, makes a mistake in saying he did 
invent it.) 

So the people went back on the name of Dr. 
Guillotin — all because a poet of that day had made 
some jingling rhymes, in which the honor had 
been referred to him. 

The real truth is, that a machine like it had 
been used in Italy, at Genoa, two hundred years 
before ; and in England, at Halifax, and in Scot- 
land, at Edinburgh, more than a hundred years 

before. The Scotch people had called it " The 

It is a dreadful machine, and does very quick 
work, as I know ; for I have myself seen a man's 
head taken off by it ; and I never wish to see 
such a sight again. 

And now, why do you suppose I have run over 
this bloody bit of history ? Only as a sort of intro- 
duction to two of your good friends — a man and a 
woman, who lived in Paris through all this time 
of blood, and who yet have written the two most 
charming and pleasant stories for children that are 
anywhere to be found in the French language. 

You know them both in English. Who the 
writers were, and what the stories were, I must tell 
you some other month. 


By J. T. Trowbridge. 

One day, a good many years ago, young Joe 
Scoville, of Bass Cove, went up to town to sell 
some wild ducks he had shot. Old Joe (that was 
his father) had said to him, early in the season, 
" When I see you come a-luggin' home a couple o' 
dozen ducks to oncet, then I '11 let you go and try 
your hand sellin' on 'em ; " and young Joe, having 
bagged that morning his two dozen and upward, 
had now for the first time in his life come alone to 

And very proud was young Joe, I assure you. 
He drove smartly into the Square, and cried, 
" Whoa ! " and " Here 's yer nice fine ducks, gen- 
tlemen ! walk up, gentlemen ! " and nodded re- 
spectfully to customers, and felt and acted very 
much like old Joe, his father. 

He thought everybody appeared greatly pleased 
with him. Some looked at his freckled face, long 
hair, and old coat that had been his father's (and 
had seen I don't know how many Atlantic storms), 
and smiled approvingly. Some appeared delighted 
with his manners — so fresh and natural, you know. 
Others regarded his little old one-horse wagon, 
and queer little pony, — with his unkempt mane 
about his face and eyes, which gave him a striking 
resemblance to young Joe with his long hair, — as 

if they had never seen anything so agreeable. 
"What pleasant folks these city folks be ! " thought 
young Joe. 

" Walk up, gentlemen, and take a look ! Don't 
cost nothin' to take a look, whether ye buy or 
not ! " he called out. " How d'e do ? " 

He said "How d'e do?" to about the hand- 
somest, best-dressed, and fattest man either he or 
anybody else ever saw. He had a cane in his hand 
and a cigar in his mouth, and was altogether a 
nice, plump, shiny fellow, from his hat to his boots. 
He did not say in reply, " Pretty well, thank ye ; 
how are you ? " as Joe, who had been taught good 
manners at home, thought he ought to have done ; 
but, with his hat tipped airily on one side of his 
head, and his cigar sticking up jauntily out of one 
corner of his mouth, he came along and looked 
carelessly into the wagon. 

" Hello !" said he, when he saw the ducks. He 
took the cigar out of his mouth, and said " Hel-lo!" 
again, more emphatically than before, and looked 
up at young Joe. " Where did you get these ?" 

"Shot 'em; where d'ye s'pose?" said young 
Joe, proudly. 

" You didn't shoot 'em? — a boy like you/" said 
the fat man. 




" Mabby I did n't," replied Joe, indignantly; 
"and then, ag'in, mabby I did; and it's a little 
more I did than I did n't, this time, I guess !" 
" Bless my heart ! if I aint surprised ! " 
Now the handsome and well-dressed plump gen- 
tleman happened to be no other than Mr. Augustus 
Bonwig, the confectioner, whose celebrated candy- 
shop was well and favorably known to every good 
boy and girl in town. He looked almost as if he 
had been made of candy himself — clear white and 
red, and a great deal of it. There was one thing 

' ' Do — you — want — to — buy — them — ducks ? " 
demanded young Joe, ungrammatically, but very 
distinctly, beginning to distrust Mr. Bonwig. "If 
you don't, you need n't feel obliged to handle 'em 
any more, that's all." 

" No, I don't care to purchase ; but I '11 give 
something for a chance to shoot a few such birds," 
said Mr. Bonwig — and blessed his heart again. 

" Oh ! that 's it ! Wal, you come down our way 
some time, and I '11 show ye a chance. Ye can 
shoot as many black ducks and coots and old wives 


he was remarkably good at, but on which he did 
not pride himself at all, and that was — his business. 
There was another thing he was not so good at, 
but on which he naturally prided himself a good 
deal (for that is the way with some of us), and 
that was — gunning. He did n't care whether you 
praised his sweetmeats, or not ; but if you hap- 
pened to say, "Bonwig, people tell me you are a 
fine shot," that pleased Mr. Augustus Bonwig. It 
was this ambition of his which caused him to regard 
young Joe with sudden interest, and to exclaim 
again, very emphatically, after having examined 
him and the ducks once more, "Bless my heart 
now ! I am surprised ! " 

as ye can carry away on yer back. And I wont 
charge ye nothin' for 't, neither. Takes gumption 
to git 'em, though, sometimes ! " said Joe. 

" I guess if you can get 'em /can, fast enough ! " 
said the smiling Augustus. " Where do you live ? " 

" Bass Cove. Ask for old Joe Scoville — that's 
my father. Stage-driver '11 set ye down right by 
the door. Hope you '11 bring a good gun. I ha'nt 
got much of a gun, nor dad ha'nt, neither; — some- 
times I take mine, and sometimes I take his 'n, and 
sometimes I take both ; — flint-locks ; miss fire half 
the time ; but we manage to make 'em do, seein' 
we 've got the hang o' the ducks." 

This speech greatly encouraged Mr. Bonwig, 




who thought that if such a green. youth as Joe, 
with an old flint-lock, could bag wild ducks at Bass 
Cove, surely he, Augustus the sportsman, with his 
fine double-barreled fowling-piece and modern ac- 
couterments, must have great success there, and 
astonish the natives at their own game. He named 
an early day for his visit, and already imagined 
himself shooting ducks by the dozen. 

" Arly in the mornin' 's the best time for 'em," 
said Joe, who accordingly advised him to come 
down the evening before, and stop overnight. 

To this Mr. Bonwig agreed, and walked away in 
fine spirits, with his hat on one side, swinging his 
cane, and puffing his jaunty cigar. Then, having 
sold his ducks for a good price, and bought a new 
fur cap for Winter wear, and a glass of very small 
beer for immediate consumption, and a rattle for 
the baby, and a paper of brown sugar for the 
family, all with the duck money, young Joe turned 
about and drove home, with a pretty good handful 
of small change still jingling in his pocket. 

One evening, not long after, the stage-coach 
rolled up to old Joe's door at the Cove, and a stout 
sporting gentleman got down over the wheel, from 
the top, and jumped to the ground. It was Mr. 
Augustus Bonwig, looking plumper than ever, in 
his short hunting-jacket, and handsomer than ever, 
to young Joe's fancy, in his magnificent hunting- 
boots (red-topped, trousers tucked into them), and 
with the fine double-barreled gun he carried. 

"Oh, a'nt that !" exclaimed Joe, poising 

the gun. He did not say what — no word in the 
language seemed adequate to express the admira- 
tion and delight with which he regarded the beau- 
tiful fowling-piece. " And what boots them are for 
wet walkin' ! And ha'nt you got the splendidest 
game-bag, though ! And what a huntin'-cap ! — 
it don't seem as though a man could miss a bird, 
that wore such a cap as that ! Come in," said Joe, 
his respect for Mr. Bonwig greatly increased, now 
that he had seen him in such noble sporting rig. 
" Father's to home. And I '11 show you our guns 
— old-fashioned queen's-arms, both on 'em." 

" Bless my heart ! " said Augustus, smiling. 
" Well, now, I am surprised ! You don't mean 
to say you shoot ducks with those things ? Well, 
well ! I am I " 

"My boy there," said old Joe, filling his pipe 
and cocking his eye proudly at the youngster, 
"he'd shoot ducks with 'most anything, I believe. 
He 'd bring 'em down with a hoe-handle, if he 
could n't git holt o' nothin' else. He 's got a knack, 
sir; it 's all in havin' a knack." And old Joe, who 
had been standing with his back to the fire, turned 
about and stooped to pick up a small live coal with 
the tongs. "Then ag'in," — he pressed the coal 

into the bowl of his pipe, and took a puff, — 
"ducks is" — puff, puff — " puty plenty," — puff, — 
"and puty tame on this here coast, about now." 
And the old man, having lighted his pipe, and re- 
placed the tongs in the chimney-corner, stepped 
aside, to make room for his wife. 

Mrs. Joe swung out the old-fashioned crane, 
hung the tea-kettle on one of the hooks, and swung 
it back again over the fire. Then she greased the 
iron spider, placed it on the coals, and made other 
preparations for supper. 

" Sed down, sed down," said old Joe; and Mr. 
Bonwig sat down. And the children crowded 
around him, to admire his watch-chain and his 
red-topped boots. And the amiable Augustus, 
who had come prepared for such emergencies, 
pulled out of one pocket one kind of candy, and 
another kind out of another pocket, and still a 
third variety from a third receptacle, and so on ; 
for his hunting-suit seemed to be literally lined 
with pockets, and all his pockets to contain more 
or less of those celebrated sweetmeats so well and 
so favorably known to the good boys and girls in 
town. And Mr. Bonwig was pleased to observe 
that human nature was the same everywhere ; 
country boys and girls were like city boys and 
girls, in one respect at least — all liked candy. 

" O, a'nt it good ! " said Maggie. 

"Prime! I tell ye!" said Joe, who had his 
share, of course. 

" Goodie, good ! " said Molly. 

" Goo, goo ! " crowed the baby. 

"Oh, my!" said Tottie. 

And they all sucked and crunched, with cheeks 
sticking out and eyes glistening, just like so many 
children in town, for all the world. And Augustus 
was happy, thinking just then, I imagine, of three 
or four plump little darlings at home, of whom he 
was very fond, and whom he never left for a single 
night, if he could help it, unless it was to go on 
some such glorious hunting frolic as this. 

It was a poor man's kitchen. I don't think there 
was a carpet or a table-napkin in the house ; the 
ceiling was low, the windows were small, the walls 
smoky, and even-thing was as plain and old-fash- 
ioned as could be. But Mr. Bonwig, nice gentle- 
man as he was, appeared delighted. He prided 
himself on his sportsmanlike habits, and so the 
rougher he found life down on the coast, the better. 
He admired the little smoky kitchen, he liked the 
fried perch and cold wild duck for supper, and he 
was charmed with the homely talk of gunning and 
fishing, and storms and wrecks, which took up the 
evening, and with the bed of wild fowls' feathers on 
which he passed the night. 

The next morning young Joe came to his bed- 
side, candle in hand, and awoke him, before dawn. 




" Hello ! " said Mr. Bonwig, rubbing his eyes 
open. " Hel-lo ! I am surprised! I was having 
such a splendid time ! I thought I was hunting 
ducks, and I had got a whole flock in range of my 
two barrels, and was waiting for a few more to 
light ; but I was just going to shoot, when you 
woke me. I wish I had fired before ! " 

" Wal, you come with me, and mabby your 
dream '11 come to pass," said young Joe, leaving 
him the candle to dress by. 

Mrs. Scoville was already cooking their break- 
fast ; " for, like as not," she said, " they would n't 
be back till noon, and they must have a bite of 
something to start with." 

Mr. Bonwig was sorry she had given herself so 
much trouble ; but he afterward, as we shall see, 
had good reason to be thankful that he had taken 
that "bite." 

At daylight they set out, Mr. Bonwig with his 
fine, stub-twist, two-barreled fowling-piece, and 
young Joe with both the old queen's-arms, his own 
and his father's. 

Mr. Bonwig wished to know what the boy ex- 
pected to do with two guns. 

" They may come handy ; they 'most alluz 
does," said Joe. 

"But I've my gun this time," said Augustus ; 
"and I shall want you to carry the birds." 

That was a somewhat startling suggestion ; but 
Joe thought he would take both guns, nevertheless. 

" I a'nt goin' to come in the way of your shoot- 
in' ; but I '11 jest take what you leave — though I 
don't suppose that will be much," said he. 

It was a cool Autumn morning. The air was 
crisp and exhilarating. The morning light was 
breaking, through dim clouds, over land and sea. 
Joe led the way over the short wet grass, and rocks 
and ledges, of a rough hill back of the Cove. At 
last he pulled the eager Augustus by the jacket, 
and said : 

" Be sly now, climbin' around them rocks yen- 
der ! There 's a beach t' other side, and a little 
stream o' water runnin' acrost it. Black ducks can't 
git along, as some kinds can, with salt water alone 
— they alluz have to go to fresh water to drink, and 
we're apt to find 'em around Beach Brook here, 
'fore folks are stirrin'. 'T was on this beach father 
shot the twenty-five, to one shot, he told ye about 
last night." 

" Was that a true story, Joe ? " Augustus asked, 
growing excited. 

"True as guns," said Joe. "Ye see, they all 
gether in a huddle along by the brook, and you've 
only to git in range of 'em, and let fly jest at the 
right minute ; sometimes there '11 be a flock of a 
hundred, like as any way, and ye can't miss 'cm 
all if ye try." 

" I should think not ! " said Mr. Bonwig, taking 
long, noiseless strides in his hunting-boots, and 
holding his gun in the approved fashion. " Only 
show me such a chance ! " 

" I '11 wait here in the hollow," said Joe. " You 
crawl over the rocks, and look right down on the 

beach before ye, and By sixty ! there 's a 

flock lightin' now ! — see 'em ? " 

" Bless my heart ! " said Bonwig, in no little 

He took the route Joe pointed out, and soon dis- 
appeared behind the ledges. Then all was silence 
for several minutes, while Joe waited to hear the 
double report of the destructive fowling-piece, and 
to see the frightened flock of ducks — or such as 
were left of them after Mr. Bonwig's shots — fly up 

Bonwig in the meantime crept along behind a 
pile of rocks Joe had described to him, and, look- 
ing through an opening, saw a wonderful sight. 
Before him spread the broad, smooth beach, washed 
by the surf. There must have been a high wind 
off the coast during the night, for the sea was 
rough, and long, heavy breakers came curling 
and plunging magnificently along the shore. The 
morning clouds were reddening over the agitated 
ocean, which faintly reflected their tints. 

But the sight which most interested Mr. Augus- 
tus Bonwig was the game that awaited him. The 
brook, which cut out afresh its channel across the 
beach as often as the tide, which filled it with sand 
twice in the twenty-four hours, receded, — the little 
brook, from the rocks to the surf (it was now half 
tide), was alive with ducks, and more were alight- 

Mr. Bonwig silently blessed his heart two or 
three times — and well he might, for it was beating 
with very unsportsmanlike rapidity at that exciting 
moment. His hands shook so that it was well that 
Joe, if he was to retain his high respect for hirh as 
a gunner, did not see them. In fact. Mr. Bonwig, 
who fancied himself a sportsman because he had 
been sometimes successful in firing at a mark, 
found this a very different business. He hardly 
knew whether he took aim or not. That one barrel 
went off prematurely in the air is quite certain. 
At the report, — the like of which ducks on that 
coast had made acquaintance with before, and 
knew that it meant mischief, — the entire flock of a 
hundred or more flew up at once, with a sudden 
noise of wings which could be heard above the 
roaring of the breakers. Then the other barrel 
went off. Then young Joe came running up in 
high glee, to offer his congratulations and to help 
pick up the dead birds. He looked, expecting to 
see the beach strewn with them. 

There was n't a bird on the beach, dead or alive ! 




In utter amazement, Joe turned and looked at 
Mr. Bonwig. That gentleman stood With his portly 
form erect, his head thrown back, and his mouth 
and eyes open, staring at the sky, into which his 
fine covey of ducks were rapidly vanishing. 

" Well, well ! " said he. " Now, now ! If I aint 
surprised ! Who ever saw anything happen like 
that ? Bless — my — heart ! " 

" Not a darned duck ! " said Joe. 

" O, I must have wounded some ! I must have 
wounded about twenty ! " Augustus declared. He 
looked critically at his gun; then he turned his 
gaze once more at the sky ; then he looked at 
young Joe, who was beginning to grin. " I think 
my shot must be too fine," said Mr. Bonwig. 

Joe asked to see his lead. 

" 'T aint no finer 'n what / use. Feathers on 
a loon's breast are so thick them shot would n't 

go through em ; have to fire at a loon's head, 
when he 's facin' ye. But I don't see how ye could 
let fly into a flock o' loons even without knockin' 
over a few." 

" It 's a very remarkable circumstance ! — very 
singular ! — very surprising ! " observed Mr. Bon- 
wig, wounded in his tenderest point, — his pride as 
a sportsman, — and betraying a good deal of chagrin 
and agitation. He was very much flushed. He 
took off his cap and wiped his forehead. " Just let 
me try that thing over again, that 's all ! " 

" Best way now will be to go off to the island," 
said Joe. " That 's our dory. Jest help me shove 
it off, and we '11 have some fun yet ! " 

" Yes, yes — so we will ! " said Bonwig. 

And so they did ; but we shall have to post- 
pone our account of it for a future number of St. 






(A tt old song to a new tunc. ) 

^'yj^t'J^-', , 

Ten little country boys underneath a vine ; 

A darning-needle frightened one, and then there were but nine. 

Nine little country boys swinging on a gate ; 

One turned a somersault, and then there were but eight. 

Eight little country boys learning about heaven ; 
One fell fast asleep, and then there were but seven. 

Seven little country boys, full of monkey tricks ; 

One rolled down the hill, and then there were but six. 

Six little country boys going to rob a hive ; 

A bumble-bee stung one, and then there were but five. 

is 7 5.; 





Five little country boys asking for some more ; 

One burst his little self, and then there were but four. 

Four little country boys climbing up a tree ; 

The farmer came and whipped one, and then there were but three. 

Three little country boys, gayly dressed in blue ; 

One tumbled overboard, and then there were but two. 

Two little country boys, both named John ; 

One knocked the other down, and then there was but one. 

c^ / . - 

,-— — - . \ 

^3?4J °V/ V* I!, tt&f^L 

">a>C3ct'£i4^ 1 -' 

One little country boy diving for a penny ; 

A little fish swallowed him, and then there was n't any. 





By Susan Coolidge. 

T was on the day before Thanks- 
giving that the saucer-pie came 
into being. Miss Hepzitah made 
it. All the grown-up pies were 
done and in the oven. The 
Indian pudding was mixed and 
flavored, waiting its turn till all 
the other things should be drawn out, when the 
oven door would be shut and it put in and left to 
slowly bake all night long, and come out in the 
morning brown as a chestnut and spicy as — well, 
as an old-fashioned Indian pudding. There is 
nothing else in the world spicy enough to be com- 
pared with it. 

Rows of loaves, brown and white, stood covered 
with towels on the shelves of the buttery, which 
smelt delightfully, and not of fresh bread alone, 
for in the corner, under a tin pan, was the huge 
jelly-cake, a miracle of light sponge, and jam, and 
pink and white frosting. Apple sauce and cran- 
berry sauce were simmering over the fire in little 
kettles. On the window-sill stood the great chicken 
pie, set out to cool, while beside it to-morrow's 
turkey lay trussed and ready, its drumsticks and 
wings meekly folded over a well-stuffed breast. 
There was no end to the good things, thought lit- 
tle Dolly. It was as exciting as Thanksgiving-day 
itself, just to stand by and watch and see, and smell 
the fragrance of the impending feast. 

A morsel of paste remained on the board after 
the big pies were finished, and at the bottom of 
the bowl a little strained and lemon-flavored apple 
sauce. Miss Hepzitah stepped to the dresser and 
took down a small blue and white saucer. Dolly's 
eyes grew round as the saucer with expectation 
when she saw this. To and fro went Miss Hepzi- 
tah's roller, and presently the paste had become a 
smooth, flat sheet, which was laid over the saucer 
and neatly trimmed about the edges. Then the 
apple was poured in, covered with another sheet 
of paste, three little fork-holes were pricked in the 
middle, and lastly, "sizz, sizz" went Miss Hepzitah's 
"jigger," and behold, in one second of time, a 
pretty scalloped border grew into shape and rounded 
the pie into perfect beauty. Dolly had been hold- 
ing her breath during the last of these operations, 
but now she felt that she must speak or die ! 

"Is it for me ? " she cried. " Oh, Miss Hepsy, 
is it for me ? " 

" Wait and see," replied Miss Hepsy. The pie 

■was meant for Dolly, but, like many grown per- 
sons, Miss Hepzitah enjoyed baffling children and 
putting them off when they asked questions. She 
had never had much to do with any child till 
Dolly came, and did not understand how little 
hearts set themselves on little things, or how hard 
it is for little patiences to "wait and see" when 
they are bidden to do so. 

With anxious interest Dolly watched the saucer- 
pie shoved into the oven. You maybe sure that she 
managed to be on hand to see it come out. Miss 
Hepsy had never made a saucer-pie before since 
Dolly had lived with her. That was almost a year. 
Dolly was beginning to forget the time that went 
before — the time when she lived with mamma, and 
was petted with baby-talk, had treats and surprises, 
and spent the pennies given her in candy instead 
of putting them into the missionary box, as Miss 
Hepsy made her do. Miss Hepzitah meant to be 
very kind to Dolly, but her sense of duty was 
strong, and she thought a good deal more of what 
was good for Dolly's character than of what Dolly 
happened to be wishing and longing for at the mo- 
ment. This sometimes led to misunderstandings 
between them. 

Dear little Dolly ! Her pink and white fat face 
was full of anxiety as Miss Hepsy lifted the saucer- 
pie from the oven and set it on the table to cool. 

" Now you'll tell me if it's for me, wont you?" 
she said. 

Miss Hepsy relented, and was just going to say 
"yes," when, unfortunately, somebody knocked at 
the door. It was little Kitty Blane who knocked. 
Kitty was the child of a neighbor not quite so well 
off as Miss Hepzitah was. Mrs. Blane happened 
just then to be laid up with rheumatism, and Miss 
Hepsy had promised her a pumpkin pie, which 
Kitty was now come to fetch. It stood on the 
table, already packed in a basket with a mold of 
cranberry jelly, and Miss Hepzitah proceeded to 
tuck a clean napkin neatly about it. 

Suddenly a bright thought struck her. She 
turned sharp round and seized the saucer-pie. 

" Now, Dolly," she said, " I did mean this pie 
for you ; but here 's Kitty, you see, whose ma is 
sick, and who aint going to have any Thanksgiv- 
ing at all, none of her folks, nor nothing. Now, 
you '11 have Aunt Jessie, you know, and Uncle 
Jim, and grandma, and all the cousins, and a 
good dinner and a first-rate time generally; so I 




think you 'd better give this little pie to Kitty ! 
You 'd rather, would n't you ? You don't want to 
feel selfish about it, I 'm sure, do you, Dolly? " 

Miss Hepzitah thought that to make this lit- 
tle sacrifice would be good for Dolly's character, 
you see ; so she was much disappointed when, in- 
stead of cheerfully replying, like a little girl in a 
book, "Yes, indeed, Miss Hepsy, let Kitty have 
it," Dolly burst into tears, and sobbed out, " Oh, 
was it for me ? I don't want to give it away. I 
don't, Miss Hepsy ! I don't want to ! " 

''Dolly!" cried Miss Hepsy, sternly, "I am 
ashamed of you ! Here, Kitty, take the little pie 
and go. I 'm sorry that Dolly should behave so 
naughty, that I am." 

" Oh, please, Miss Hepsy," faltered Kitty, "don't 
give me Dolly's pic. I 'd a great deal rather she 
had it; indeed I would." 

"It isn't hers. It's your pie!" declared Miss 
Hepsy, with a stamp of her foot. " I never gave 
it to Dolly at all. There, Kitty, I 've put it in the 
basket. Go home, now, and tell your ma I '11 
look in sometime to-morrow, and see how she 's 
getting along." 

Kitty cast a sorrowful look at the sobbing Dolly. 
But it was never of any use to oppose Miss Hepsy, 
so she took the basket up and went away without 
another word. She liked little pies very much ; 
but this, she felt, it would be impossible to enjoy, 
because, while she ate it, she should be thinking of 
poor Dolly, left behind pieless and tearful. 

Arrived at home, she gave Miss Hepzitah's mes- 
sage to her mother, set the pies and the jelly away 
in a cool place, mended the fire, hung on the ket- 
tle for tea, and then sat down on the broad stone 
door-step to rest for a little while. The sun was 
setting, making haste to go to bed, as sleepy suns 
do on November afternoons. The air was mild, 
with just a faint bright touch of frost, which seemed 
to add freshness to it rather than chill. Kitty al- 
ways liked to watch the sunsets, they were so 
pretty, from the kitchen door. All the leafless 
woods turned into beautiful colors ; the pond, which 
shone in the distance, gleamed golden and still, 
like a big burnished mirror. Odd, unexplained 
fragrances came from the forest, as though the 
ghosts of the dead flowers had come back to haunt 
the spot. A belated bird hopped by. Above was 
a dome of pure yellow sky, with here and there a 
little fleck of crimson cloud drifting over it, like a 
tiny, rapid boat. Surely no summer evening could 
be more beautiful. Frost and winter, all unlovely 
things, seemed just then impossible and a long 
way off. 

Presently Kitty left off looking at the sunset, to 
watch a small figure which came into view on the 
road, dodging behind fences, and kicking up dead 

leaves with a pair of brown little feet. It was a 
girl about Kitty's own age, a girl with a thin, dark 
face, tangled hair, and a ragged frock, which only 
half hid her limbs. Behind her ran a dog, which 
barked and snapped at the leaves which the girl 
kicked up with her toes. 

When the girl saw Kitty sitting there she stopped 
and looked for a minute, as though she would turn 
and run away. Then she sidled slowly nearer, 
glancing shyly out of her large black eyes, and not 
speaking till Kitty spoke. 

" Is that your dog?" asked Kitty. 

'• Yes," said the girl, " he's mine. His narrfe is 

"And what's your name?" was Kitty's next 

" Dono what 't is now. Mother used to call me 
Nance sometimes." 

" But don't they call you Nance any longer?" 
asked Kitty, surprised. 

" No. Nobody don't call me no name at all, 
only just ' Come here, you,' or ' Get out, you 
limb ! ' or something like that." 

" Why, what horrid people they must be ! I 
would n't stay any longer with people who called 
me names like that," cried Kitty, opening wide 
her eyes. 

"Where would you stay, then?" demanded 
the girl. 

This was a poser ! 

" I 'd — I 'd — run away, or — something. I 'd go 
somewhere else," said Kitty. 

"Yes, — but where? Nobody wants a tramp- 
child like me about. 'Most always at nice clean 
houses like this they drive me away. Once a 
boy set his dog on me, but Spot was the biggest, 
and he gin it to 'em, I tell you. Jack, and Spelter 
Sal, well, they aint so very kind, I 'spose, but 
they gin me a meal of vittles whenever they has 
any theirselves, and I sleep under the tent with 
'em ; and it 's better than outside. 'T aint so easy 
as it sounds to go hungry, I can tell you." 

" Oh, I am so sorry for you ! " cried Kitty, with 
tears in her eyes. " Wait here just a minute, and 
let me ask mother if I may n't give you some sup- 
per. I'm sure she'll say yes." And in she ran, 
leaving the poor little vagrant at the gate, with 
Spot jumping and barking at her heels. 

" Here," cried she, coming back with a mug 
and a plate of bread in her hands. " I knew 
mother 'd let me. Here 's some bread-and-milk 
for you, Nance. Sit down on the step and eat it 
all up. Poor Nance! it's dreadful for you to be so 
hungry. Why, I never was hungry in my life, — 
not so hungry that I could n't wait, I mean," she 
added, correcting herself. 

Nance evidently had reached the point of hun- 





ger when it was not easy to wait. She attacked 
the bread-and-milk like one famished. But, half- 
starved as she was, Kitty observed that she stop- 
ped every now and then to throw a bit of bread to 
Spot, who sat on his tail watching with wistful 
eyes each mouthful that went down his mistress's 
throat. When Kitty saw this, she ran for more 
bread, and fed Spot herself. Her tender heart was 
full of pity for the forlorn creatures ; she longed to 
help farther, to do more for them. A sudden 
thought crossed her mind. 

" Shall I ? " she asked herself. " Yes, I will." 
And without farther delay, she hastened indoors 
once more, and came back with a happy flush on 
her cheeks, and in her hand the saucer-pie ! 

" Here," she said, " look at this dear little pie. 
Is n't it cunning ? Miss Hepsy gave it me for my 
own, and I 'm going to give it to you. I wont 
give you the saucer, though, because that does n't 
belong to me. Don't touch it till I come back. 
I 'm going to get a knife and some paper to wrap 
it in." 

You should have seen Nance's face as Kitty 
carefully loosened the edges of the pie, turned it 
out, and folded it in the paper ! I suppose such a 
treat had never lighted upon the poor little waif 
before in the whole course of her life. Spot 
appeared to understand that something of unusual 
importance was going on, for he stood on his hind- 
legs, barked wildly, careered about, and behaved 
generally like a distracted dcg. When the pie was 
placed in her hands, Nance looked at it silently, 
and then she looked at Kitty. She did not say 
" Thank you " — I suppose no one had ever taught 
her to do so, but her eyes made up for the defi- 
ciencies of her tongue, and Kitty missed nothing. 
" Spot ! Spot ! " called Nance, and, squeezing the 
precious pie very tightly in her hand, she smiled 
once more into Kitty's face, and walked away. 
Kitty watched her go, with a warm, happy feeling 
at her heart. It was a great deal nicer that poor 
Nance had the pie, than if she had eaten it her- 
self, — this was the thought in her mind, when at 
last she went in and shut the door. 

Nance, meanwhile, was making the best of her 
way toward the gypsy tent, which was a long way 
off in the woods. She had no idea of keeping the 
pie till she got there, because then Jack and Spel- 
ter Sal would, she knew, take it from her; but 

she wished to enjoy the pleasure of possession till 
the last possible moment. As she walked, she 
every now and then lifted the parcel to her nose 
for a rapturous sniff, but she did not undo the 
paper until nearly a mile was passed, and she and 
Spot were almost within sight of the tent. Then 
she sat down under a tree, untied the string, and 
after feasting her eyes for a moment, raised the pie 
to her lips, and took a great bite. It was even 
better than it looked, — the best, the very best 
thing, Nance thought, that she had ever imagined. 
" Oh, if it would only last forever, and never be 
eaten up ! " she thought, as she took the second 

Now, Spot had seated himself also at the same 
time with Nance, and exactly in front of her. He, 
too, smelt the pie, and admired its looks. When 
she took the first mouthful, he writhed himself 
about, and his tail rapped sharply in the dry 
leaves beneath him. His mouth watered, his red 
tongue hung out from his jaws, and waved to and 
fro suggestingly. At last he gave a short remind- 
ing bark. Nance stopped eating. She held the 
pie a little way off, and looked first at it and then 
at Spot. 

" Yes," she said at last. " You shall have 
some, Spotty, 'cause you 're the only friend I 've 
got. Poor Spotty, dear Spotty, don't wag so — 
you shall have a bit." She gave a little guess of 
self-renunciation, broke the pie bravely in two, 
and held the smaller piece out to Spot. It was a 
large piece — almost half of all that was left ! Spot 
seized it joyfully. Munch — crunch — down his 
throat it went in large morsels. Munch — crunch 
— Nance's share was also disappearing. In a very 
short time there was no pie left — not a crumb ; 
and which of the two who shared the feast enjoyed 
it the most thoroughly, it would indeed be hard to 

So Dolly, and Kitty, and Nance, and Spot, each 
and all, had a saucer-pie. Were these four pies, 
then, or was it but one, multiplied and made 
many by the blessed arithmetical rule called gold- 
en, which consists in giving each to the other? 
And which of those who gave enjoyed the giving 
most, think you, — Dolly, who parted with the pie 
against her will ; Kitty, who gave from pity and ten- 
derness of heart ; or Nance, who lovingly shared 
her little all with her dumb and only friend ? 

>6 7 5.] 




With a Spray of Autumn Leaves. 

THOUGH Autumn winds are sighing in your future, Mary dear, 

Their music may be sweeter than the early Spring-time cheer ; 

As the fleeting moments ripen in the fullness of your prime, 

There '11 be tints and shadows richer far than those of Summer-time ; 

And, so, these leaves prophetic made me dream, my girl, of you 

As they trembled in their gladness, with the sunlight shining through. 

M. M. 


By Ethel C. Gale. 

fter all, it was n't much of a 
thing to fight about ; but, then, 
if every one should refuse to quar- 
rel till there was a good reason for 
it, how could there be famous vic- 
tories ? 

It happened in this way. Every- 
thing has a beginning, and the 
beginning of this victory dated 
back to the corn-husking. Not 
an old-fashioned, social husking- 
bee in a big barn, with a big sup- 
per afterward, such as we some- 
times read about ; but a modern 
liusking, where several men stand or kneel all day 
in the frosty Autumn weather by the "stouts" of 
corn, and, taking ear by ear, pull off the husks, 
leaving some fast to the stalks, and scattering 
others over the ground. It was these scattered 
husks which made one of the parties to the battle. 
The corn had all been husked, the bundles of 
stalks carried and stacked beside the barn, and the 
corn itself had been sorted and stored in the cribs ; 
so the wide corn-field, lying on the south side of a 
hill, and still further sheltered by a thick maple 
grove on the hill-top, would have been left all 
alone had not a number of large yellow Pumpkins 
and the loosened Corn-husks have staid to keep it 

Now one would think that, under these circum- 
stances, the Corn-husks and the Pumpkins would 
have been the best of friends. But it is n't always 

circumstances that make good friends of people or 
things ; it 's the kinds of natures they have. A 
Corn-husk is naturally light-minded and vain. 

Pumpkins, on the contrary, are not very brilliant 
(I never yet heard of one of them making an after- 
dinner .speech, although they are often present on 
festive occasions, and much liked), but they are 
quite content to be useful, good-natured members 
of the community. 

One morning, an hour or two after the sun had 
kissed the hill-side field awake, the Corn-husks be- 
gan a pleasant chat with the Pumpkins, — that is, 
the chat was pleasant to the Husks because it was 
all about themselves ; and it was not disagreeable 
to the Pumpkins because they were good-humored 
enough to take an interest in whatever subject 
would best please their friends. 

" Neighbor Yellow- face," exclaimed an uneasy 
Husk, fairly jumping up and down in his excite- 
ment, " how can you bear to spend your life in 
lying there so quietly, week in and week out ? 
Why. I could n't endure it for an hour ! Look at 
me now. I stay at home a little while, then coax a 
friendly wind to give me a lift in his carriage, and 
take me to call upon some of my brothers and 
sisters on the other side of the field ; then I may 
go down to the road-side and amuse myself looking 
at the passers-by ; then I may go up by the grove 
and listen to the gossip of the trees — very enter- 
taining it is too ; and then, in the afternoons, we 
all get together to have a dance. We Corn-husks 
are constantly going about, always having a good 

4 6 



time, always improving our minds by intercourse 
with the world ; while you Oh ! dear neigh- 
bor Yellow-face, I think your life must be dread- 
fully monotonous. Don't you often wish you were 
a Husk?" 

" Well," smiled the Pumpkin, rolling himself a 
very trifle more to one side, " I don't know that I 
ever wished that. I think my life is very pleasant. 
I dream of a great many happy things, and don't 
find the days long or dull. A great deal passes 

them that people shall learn always to think of 
peace and happiness when they see my face." 

" Hear him now ! " shrieked the little Corn-husk, 
in his hasty temper not half hearing what the 
Pumpkin had said. "Only hear him ! Old Yellow- 
face here says that we were all sent into the world 
just to eat and drink and sleep, as he does, from 
morning till night ! " 

With this arose a great rustling and a confusion 
of many voices. Up sprang the Corn-husks, every 


before my eyes, and I 'm so busy thinking that the 
time seems short. In fact, there is but one thing 
that troubles me, which is that by thinking so 
much I 'm a little afraid that my head is swelling. 
Do you think I shall die of it ? " 

"Die of what?" snappishly answered the irri- 
tated Husk. " Your head is swelling, but it 's all 
because you lie here all day in the sun and do 
nothing but eat and drink. I should n't wonder 
one bit if you died of laziness. You 've no ambition 
at all, or you would try to rise in the world ! " 

" O yes, I have ! " said the Pumpkin as placidly 
as ever. " Yes, I have an ambition to do as well as 
I can what I was sent in the world to do, and that 
is to think of happy things, and grow so full of 

one of them indignant at the presumption of the 

" They are all alike," cried the Husks. " The 
lazy, stuck-up things ! The ignorant, conceited 
lot ! Husks of our position should never have no- 
ticed them ! Let us make war upon them." 

And with this the Husks began to throw them- 
selves upon the Pumpkins, to rain down blows 
upon them, and at the same time to pelt them with 

" What in the world is this about ? " exclaimed 
the astonished Pumpkins. "What have we done 
to deserve this ? " 

But for answer they received only more blows 
and hard words from the now furious Husks. 




In the midst of the turmoil, both parties might 
have seen, if they had not been too busily engaged 
to do so, the farmer and his ox-cart slowly ap- 

"Land sakes !" exclaimed the farmer. " I do 
believe those Husks think they 're really hurting 
my Pumpkins ! Ho, ho ! Things that are worth 
the least always think the most of themselves." 

And he began tenderly lifting the Pumpkins one 
by one into the cart. 

As this was slowly creaking out of sight again, 
and not a Yellow-face was left upon the ground, 
the field felt lonely, and sighed for its late friends. 
But the Corn-husks called a convention, and passed 
resolutions and issued reports, to prove to all the 
world that they had gained a famous victory. 


By Mrs. M. C. Pyle. 

A GOODLY sound has that word " Reform," 
And with it this age keeps its virtue warm, 
But many reformers, well we know, 
Spend their strength showing others the way 

to go; 
With zeal and knowledge telling each one 
How his neighbors' duty can best be done, 
While neglecting to prove to all beholders 
How such loads would be borne by their own 

strong shoulders. 
The guide-post maxim keeping in view, 
" Do as I say and not as I do." 
Remembering this, we must duly prize 
One hero who acted otherwise, 
To whom these words of honor are due, 
That he showed the duty and did it too. 

Our poultry-yard was a cheerful place 
With its tenants of various hue and race : 
Geese, and turkeys, and waddling ducks, 
Motherly hens with anxious clucks, 
Speckled Dominiques, Polanders dark, 
Guinea fowls with their queer " Pe-trarch y" 
But the proudest and grandest of all the flock 
Was Gobble, our gorgeous turkey-cock ; 
Strutting about with stately tread, 
With wattles of scarlet and tail outspread, 
He seemed to feel himself set to guard 
The morals of all in the poultry-yard. 
He meddled with broods which the mothers 

In every squabble he interfered, 
His swelling importance seeming to say 
" Do as I do ; 't is the only way." 
At last, his ideas expanding yet, 
He would teach the very hens to set, 

Since his views on the subject no setting hen 
Had properly showed to the world till then. 
From each nest that he found in the fragrant 

Its anxious tenant he drove away, 
Settling himself on the warm, round eggs, 
With his awkward and sprawling wings and 

And looking about for the admiration 
Due to such lessons in incubation. 
But as such a genius none could ask 
To bind himself to so dull a task, 
When the mother crept back he was always 


But Nemesis comes surely if never fast, 
And our Gobbler was brought to grief at last, 
When Aunt Peggy's burning wrath was hurled 
On this work of reform in the chicken world. 
Sternly she vowed herself "bound to fix 
That meddling turkey, and cure his tricks ! 
That he should hatch out, by hook or by crook, 
The very next brood that he undertook ! " 

So said so done ; for that very day 

He drove off old Dorking the usual way 

From the nest she had set on two weeks and 

Well hidden just back of the tool-house door; 
Then, tiring soon, would have sallied out, 
But he found Aunt Peggy waiting without ! 
Close by the door she had taken her stand, 
A paddle she wielded with strong right hand ; 
Again to the nest, with resounding thwack, 
She chased the astonished reformer back ; 




And again and again, in the self-same way, 
She taught him that there he was bound to stay. 
Vainly, peering with outstretched head, 
He crept from the tool-house with stealthy 

tread ; 
The vigilant watcher was there before him, 
The terrible paddle was flourished o'er him, 
And its very sight made him judge it best 
To scuttle hastily back to the nest, 

The stars pass over, — the sunset's glow ; 
How on dancing boughs and on waving grass 
The sunbeams and shadows would come and 

The proud hens cackled, the pigeons flew, 
The summer breezes fitfully blew, 
Ripe mulberries dropped from the low-hung 

All things in nature tempted him, 


Conning the lesson severe and surprising, 
That doing is harder than criticising. 

So there, at morn, and night, and noon, 
Poor Gobble sat through that week in June, 
Till Dorking's appointed time had run, 
Till the chicks hatched out and his task was done. 

He saw, through the tool-house window low, 

So, sadly sitting in doleful thought, 
A change in old Gobble's zeal was wrought, 
And he learned, as a lesson strange but true, 
There was something in setting he never knew. 

With rumpled feathers and drooping crest 
He came at last from that hated nest ; 
No more a teacher longing to be, — 
A sadder and wiser fowl was he. 





BOUT ten years ago, when 
the passion for collect- 
ing postage-stamps 
had just begun, all 
that was known of 
them could be told 
in a few pages of 
St. Nicholas. But at the present day, postage- 
stamp collecting, in many parts of this country 
and Europe, has so increased, that a name — 
" Philately " — has been given to the pursuit, and 
much attention has been paid to it in various ways. 
In some of our cities there are shops where nothing 

Indian stamps we learn something of the peculiar 
characteristics of these islands ; while in the stamps 
of our own country, in common with others issuing 
from other quarters of the globe, we have national 
portrait galleries. 

While postage-stamps are being collected, or 
when they are put into their albums, they are ex- 
amined and studied. The map is consulted to find 
the location of the country issuing them. The his- 
tory is opened to find whose portraits are figured 
on them. The cyclopedia is brought out to get 
some idea of their value. Some learned friend 
is questioned to find the meaning of the peculiar 

New South Wales, 1850. 

Orange Free Stales. 186S. 

Paraguay. 1870. 

Virgin Islands. 186S. 

Turkey. 1862. 

Western Australia, 1872. 

Cashmere, 1867. British Guiana, 1850. Naples, 18! 


but foreign postage-stamps are sold, and in Paris 
there is a regular postage-stamp exchange on the 
Champs Elysees. 

The collecting of postage-stamps is not always 
such a frivolous pastime or occupation as many 
people imagine. 

These little bits of colored paper, ornamented 
with portraits, or coats-of-arms, or peculiar devices, 
have a great deal of information in them. They 
tell of the rise and fall of princes ; of the history 
of republics ; of the manners and customs of the 
people ; of the peculiar characteristics of the coun- 
try. The French and Spanish stamps are epitomes 
of the histories of their respective countries ; the 
English colonial stamps are a geography in them- 
selves ; the South American stamps present a fine 
display of mottoes and devices ; from the West 
VOL. III.— 4. 

inscriptions or legends. And, little by little, this 
research goes on until the collector often finds him- 
self, in a manner, getting hints of almost every- 
thing of interest going on in the world. If Russia 
and Turkey are quarreling over Montenegro, he 
can discuss the cause of the troubles. He found it 
out when examining the Montenegrin stamps in his 
album. When a young boy is placed on the throne 
of Spain, and the collector's attention is called to 
this country, stamps show him the many changes 
in that unfortunate country ; and Amadeus, and 
Don Carlos, and Isabella, and the proud and 
haughty nation which unveiled a new continent, 
pass before him as a panorama. The Centennial 
is spoken of; our young collector takes out his 
album, and sees Franklin with his kite, Washing- 
ton at Yorktown, Perry on the Lakes, Jefferson 




and Louisiana, Jackson behind the cotton bales at 
New Orleans, Scott on the plains of Mexico, and 
Lincoln with his emancipation proclamation. 

In stamp-collecting the judgment is sharpened 
in endeavoring to detect the good stamps and to 
discard the counterfeit ; the eye is drilled to appre- 
ciate the harmony and contrast of colors, in the 
proper arrangement of the stamps ; patience is 
acquired and taste cultivated in the efforts to pro- 
duce fine effects ; and cases are known of foreign 
languages being studied simply to enable the col- 
lector to decipher the legends and inscriptions on 
the stamps. A pursuit which is productive of so 
much good should not be decried as a mere child- 
ish pastime. 

The introduction of the postal system, as it at 
present exists in all countries on the globe, has 
been credited to England, when, in 1840, covers 
and envelopes were devised to carry letters all over 
the kingdom at one penny the single rate. This 
plan was adopted through the exertions of Sir 
Rowland Hill, who has been aptly termed the 
" father of postage-stamps." It now appears, how- 
ever, that there is another aspirant for the intro- 
duction of the stamp system. In Italy, as far back 
as 1818, letter sheets were prepared, duly stamped 
in the left lower corner, while letters were delivered 
by specially appointed carriers, on the prepayment 
of the money which the stamp represented. The 
early stamp represented a courier on horseback, 
and was of three values. It was discontinued 
in 1836. Whether Italy or Great Britain first in- 
troduced postage-stamps, other countries afterward 
began to avail themselves of this method for the 
prepayment of letters, although they did not move 
very promptly in the matter. 

Great Britain enjoyed the monopoly of stamps 
for three years, and, though the first stamps were 
issued in 1S40, she has made fewer changes in her 
stamps than any other country, and has suffered 
no change at all in the main design — the portrait 
of Queen Victoria. In other countries, notably in 
our own, the Sandwich Islands, and the Argentine 
Republic, the honor of portraiture on the stamps 
is usually distributed among various high public 
officers ; but in Great Britain the Queen alone 
figures on her stamps, and not even the changes 
that thirty-five years have made in her face are 
shown on the national and colonial postage- 

The next country to follow the example of Eng- 
land was Brazil. In 1842 a series of three stamps 
was issued, consisting simply of large numerals de- 
noting the value, and all printed in black. Then 
came the cantons in Switzerland, and Finland, with 
envelopes which to-day are very rare, and soon after 
them, Bavaria, Belgium, France, Hanover, New 

South Wales, Tuscany, Austria, British Guiana, 
Prussia, Saxon)', Schleswig Holstein, Spain. Den- 
mark, Italy, Oldenburg. Trinidad, Wurtemburg, 
and the United States. Other countries followed 
in the train, until, at the present moment, there is 
scarcely any portion of the globe, inhabited by 
civilized people, which has not postage-stamps. 

In looking at a collection, one is struck with the 
variety and peculiarities of the designs. You 
would not suppose that Cashmere, noted for the 
beautiful designs of its shawls, could ever sanc- 
tion such a stamp as the one shown on the preced- 
ing page. And it would puzzle a hieroglyphist to 
decipher the queer device unless he stretched his 
imagination to see some resemblance between it 
and the Cashmere goat. These stamps are printed 
from ivory blocks, which accounts for their daubed 
appearance, the figure in the cut being decidedly 
superior to the stamps themselves. The stamps 
for the Virgin Islands are very significant. The 
first that appeared represented a virgin holding in 
her hand a lamp, and surrounded by eleven lamps. 
Collectors at once put their heads together, and 
agreed that Columbus, who discovered these islands, 
having regard to their number, named them in 
commemoration of the celebrated eleven thousand 
virgins of Cologne. The truth is, however, that 
Columbus discovered these islands on the Virgin's 
day, and accordingly named them after the Virgin 
Mary, and that the twelve lamps represent the 
twelve . primitive Christian charities. The Virgin. 
Isles are a group of small rocky islands north of 
the Caribbees. 

We know of a postage-stamp issued in the Isle 
of Reunion (formerly the Isle of Bourbon), in the 
Indian Ocean, which, originally worth a few cents, 
cannot now be bought for one hundred dollars, 
although this is by no means the highest price 
which has been paid for a postage-stamp. 

The British Guiana stamp, represented in our 
cut, though ugly enough, is one of the rarest 
stamps known. Perhaps there is not a complete 
set in any one collection. 

We might proceed in this way, describing the 
peculiarities of postage-stamps, the reasons for the 
numerous devices and changes, and find a pleasure 
in the recital ; but the young collector must have 
something left for his own industry, and it is bet- 
ter, therefore, to leave this part of the subject, and 
say something about the proper way of keeping 
the stamps. 

It is a disputed question whether prepared albums 
should be used or not. Although there may be a 
certain measure of usefulness in them, they leave 
no room for the exercise of individual taste. That 
the prepared album should be entirely discarded is 
the opinion of nine out of every ten collectors, and 




our advice would be, therefore, to use books made 
of heavy paper, with perfectly blank pages. On 
these the stamps may be arranged to suit the col- 
lectors' fancy. 

The principle of mounting the stamps now 
adopted by amateurs is that known as hingeing. 
Several methods have been advocated, but the 
one we name is superior to all others in conve- 
nience and adaptation to the purpose. First, then, 
as to the paper used for the hinges. There is a 
kind of fine, foreign letter paper, strong, thin, and 
almost transparent, called by stationers " onion- 
skin," which answers the best. Sheets of this 
should be washed on one side only with a weak so- 
lution of pure gum arabic, just thick enough to flow 
easily, and to not crack when dried. The sheets, 
when dry, must be cut into strips of about one-half 
inch in width. The stamps, having been freed 
from all adhering paper, should be placed side by 
side on the strip, one edge of which has been pre- 
viously moistened to the depth of one-eighth inch, 
as illustrated in the following figure : 

Strip of ^urnmcd paper 

i\ II ; . 


IP 1 ' 



and trim the adhering portion of the strip, when it 
should look like the following : 




Then, with a pair of scissors, separate the stamps, 

Fold the strip backward upon itself, and by the 
application of a little water from a camel's-hair 
brush, the stamp is ready to be placed in position. 
The great advantage of this plan lies in the fact 
that a stamp once mounted can be easily removed 
from the page without injury to stamp or page, by 
moistening the hinge, the paper being so thin that 
a slight touch of water will loosen the hinge from 
the page. 

A word or two on the subject of counterfeits may 
not be amiss. Stamp-dealing is quite a lucrative 
pursuit, and the profits are certainly large enough 
to induce the dealer to sell only genuine stamps ; 
it is a sad fact, however, that many persons counter- 
feit nearly every rare stamp, and palm off their 
cheat upon the young collector, and even upon 
the experienced amateur, as a valuable original. 

Young collectors should be careful to collect none 
but genuine postage-stamps, and to have no deal- 
ings except with respectable and honest persons. 


By J. B L. 

' Let 'S do it," said Trip. 

" Let 's," said Tom ; and two little white figures 
popped out of bed. 

What could they be up to ? Not ten minutes 
before, they hid repeated " Now 1 lay me down to 
sleep,'' and received mamma's good-night kisses. 
Yet now here they were, drawing on stockings and 
shoes, aprons and coats, and acting decidedly as if 
"to sleep" was the last thing they had lain down 
to do. 

The "Swiss Family Robinson" was at the bot- 
tom of the mischief. Eight-year-old Miss Trip 
had just devoured that story of delightful advent- 

ure, and six-year-old Tom had listened admiringly 
to her narrations and entered heartily into her 

An early and secret leaving of the paternal roof, 
in search of personal adventure, was the project 
with which Trip's busy brain had teemed all day. 
To accomplish this more successfully, they had de- 
cided to re-dress. 

When mamma looked in upon them before re- 
tiring, instead of two white-robed children, there 
was Tom in his top-boots, trousers, and coat ; Trip 
with her dress half-buttoned, her shoes on the 
wrong feet, her apron fastened at the Lop ; and 



( November, 

over all, tightly clutched in four little hands, was 
the bed-spread, drawn up to hide from mamma's 
prying eyes anything curious below. Mamma un- 
derstood at a glance. 

" Let 'em go," said papa, in answer to a "what 
shall I do ?" " They wont go far, and they '11 find 
out for themselves how much fun there is in it." 

So two uncomfortably dressed children tossed 
and tumbled all night. 

" I 've wondered all day what Trip was up to," 
said mamma. 

" She 's been making preparations, I guess. We 
shall find her provisions hidden away somewhere." 

A little search brought to light, under the bed, 
the family valise and market basket. In the valise 
were a pillow, a blanket, a knife, two forks, one 
plate, a teacup, a coffee-pot that had 
suffered the loss of a nose, a syrup 
pitcher, a spoon, Trip's work-box, 
" Mother Goose's Melodies," an old 
jacket, two dolls, two aprons, and a 
neck-ribbon. In the basket were some 
-cold corn-bread, a tiny bag of flour, 
some salt, a huge paper of saleratus, 
a parcel of sugar, two beets, a turnip, 
a dozen raw potatoes, and a slice of 
uncooked ham. 

On the floor lay Tom's agricultural 
implements and weapons of war, — his 
spring-gun, his glittering sword of tin, 
a tiny hoe, a hatchet with a split clothes- 
pin for a handle, and a four-bladed 
jack-knife (that is, one that had long 
ago been four-bladed, but, as far back 
as Tom's memory went, one very rusty, 
very jagged, and very short blade was 
all it could boast). 

The early dawn found Trip and Tom 

" It 's dark," said Tom. 

" Oh, come on ! " said Trip. 

"It's all smoky," said Tom, look- 
ing dubiously out into the dull gray of 
the early morning. 

" Oh, Tom Nelson ! If I would n't 
be ashamed to back out ! Come ! You 
take the basket, and I '11 carry the bag, 

Clatter, clatter, bump, bump, and Trip and Tom 
basket and bag, were down-stairs, through the hall, 
out of doors. 

Mamma cautiously peeped from her window and 
saw two wretched little figures, in the mist of an 
uncomfortable, drizzling morning, starting out to- 
ward the great elm in the back-yard. 

Trip staggered along under the weight of her 
valise, dragging an umbrella behind her ; while 
Tom brought up the rear, his gun slung over his 

shoulder, his sword dangling from a clothes-line 
belt, his hoe and hatchet carried a la tomahawk, 
and his precious knife in the deepest recess of his 
deepest pocket. 

Mamma Nelson dressed herself and two-year-old 
Katie, who had not been taken into the conspiracy 
on account of her inexperience and extreme youth, 
and went down-stairs to be ready for developments. 

" Rap, rap ! " at the door. 

" Mum," said a small voice, making desperate 
attempts to speak large, "can you lend me a few 
kindlings this morning ? " 

" Certainly, sir, certainly," said mamma, briskly. 
"Very happy to accommodate you. You are 
moving, I see ! " 

" Shipwrecked." said Tom in a deep bass, glanc- 

said Trip. 


ing at the griddle-cake preparations for breakfast, 
as if famine were added to the ordinary horrors of 

"An unpleasant morning for your furniture to 
be exposed," said sympathetic mamma. 

" Goin' to build a house," said Tom, disappear- 
ing with his kindlings. 

" Rap, rap ! " 

"I would like to retain a few matches, if you 
please, ma'am," said the smooth voice of Trip, 
whose curious mixing of the Queen's English was 




the family joke. " My stove don't draw well, and 
[ can't exceed in starting a fire." 

" I suppose you lost your flint and steel in the 
wreck, and a sun-glass is a failure such a cloudy 

" Yes, ma'am," said Trip, glancing at the grid- 

Mamma slyly helped little Katie to an extra nice- 
looking one, just as two hungry-looking black eyes 
gave their last backward glance. 

Trip put some more kindlings into or under her 
primitive stove, which certainly bore much more 
resemblance to the fire-places our great-grand- 
mothers loved than to the cooking-stove in her 
mothei's kitchen. 

Tom looked solemnly into the battered tin pail, 
in which six grimy potatoes were supposed to be 

"It's a nasty old thing!" said Tom, crossly. 
" They wont never cook 'n the world." 

" Well, we can eat our brown bread if they 
don't, and put lots of sugar on it, too," said Trip, 
philosophically, her eight-year-old pride rebelling 
against giving up her pet plan. 

So the children spread their umbrella, and sat 
down to wait for breakfast. 

" Oh, Tommy ! see these dear little incident 
birds ! " said Trip, vainly endeavoring to cheer the 
drooping spirits of her fellow-adventurer. " Aint 
they pretty ? " 

" No, they aint," said Tom, snappishly. " Their 
backs are all humped up, and they can't walk, — 
they just hop, hop ! " 

" Let's tell stories," said Trip, beginning with- 
out waiting for Tom's assent : " Once there was a 
beautiful princess, and she lived in a beautiful pal- 
ace, and a wicked witch did n't like it, and she put 
some dreadful stuff into the water that the min'ster 
sprinkled on her, and she could n't walk on the 
ground, but they had to fly her, just like a kite." 

" Oh, what a stor-ec, Trip Nelson ! Now I shall 
tell mamma ! " said Tom, with virtuous indigna- 

" No you wont, either ! 'T aint a story. Mam- 
ma's book said so ! " said Trip, whose good-nature, 
like many an older housekeeper's, was not quite 
proof against the combined misfortunes of domestic 
experience and the growling masculine element in 
the domestic atmosphere. 

" My feet are all wetted, and my froat 's sore," 
said Tom, beginning to whimper, " and I want 
some griddle-cakes, too." 

"Well, Tommy," said Trip, ''don't you cry. 
We '11 play there's a ship in sight, coming to take 
us off, and then we '11 run home, and s'prise mam- 
ma, and get some breakfast, too. I 'II shake my 
apron, to make 'em see us, and you scream ' Ship 
ahoy ! ' just as loud as you can." 

But, alas ! what solitary, uninhabited corner of 
the globe ever was free from some dangerous mon- 
ster ? Lions pro.vl around, tigers spring upon their 
unwary prey, and terrible cannibals silently ap- 

So just behind our little adventurers stood a 
threatening foe. Old Billy, the neighbor's goat, 
had passed some minutes in quiet examination of 
that strange object under the elm. 

All of a sudden — rush, whang ! — and two fright- 
ened children were tumbled over on their faces, 
while poor Bill)- and the umbrella had it all to 

Tom screamed lustily, according to the pro- 
gramme, and Trip stopped signaling and joined 
in the screaming". In a moment, mamma hove in 
view, bearing down gallantly to the rescue of the 
distressed family. 

Soon after, two little children, with dry shoes 
and stockings, very happy faces, and very empty 
stomachs, might have been seen stowing away a 
sufficient quantity of provision, in the form of 
smoking and well-buttered griddle-cakes, to last 
through any ordinary experience of shipwreck and 

Here is Tom's letter to his dear friend Winches- 
ter Hardy, telling what he thought about his recent 
dangerous experience : 

Deaft W//V, TRiA 
AND Mee £/T 7?**KT TH* 

w<e WAS Slf/U hUA(?Rj 


He- WAS A e#TE J 

yVDE ScTeX tv TT 






Now this very morning I heard the pretty school- 
mistress speak of thunder as a "volume of sound," 
and a few moments afterward she remarked that 
the new volume of St. Nicholas would be, in 
many ways, the most fascinating and wonderful 
that had yet been issued. So, my children, if a 
volume of sound is thunder, you may well imagine 
that a third volume of St. NICHOLAS will be some- 
thing tremendous. How is your Jack to make 
himself heard in all the delightful commotion, I 
wonder ? 

That reminds me : Am I a real Jack-in-the- 
Pulpit? you have asked — a true plant, growing and 
preaching out in the sunshine? Well, perhaps no. 
Perhaps yes. This much is certain : I do live in 
the sunshine ; I do try to grow ; and I do love to 
talk to the boys and girls of St. NICHOLAS — to 
open their eyes and their minds by pointing out 
all sorts of queer truths here, there, and yonder — 
and to put into their hearts grateful, loving thoughts 
toward the Giver of all good. 

So, my darlings, if you 're satisfied with this 
explanation, I am. Now we '11 talk about 


" It can't be done," said Deacon Green, in Jack's 
hearing, one morning. "There is n't a man liv- 
ing, doctor or no doctor, .who can prolong his life 
for a single day. The most that can be done is not 
to shorten it ! Let 'em look out not to do that, 
sir ! Let every man, woman and child take care 
not to do anything to shorten life, and their days 
will lengthen out, in God's good providence — 
hearty, happy days, and just as many of 'em as is 
right and possible." 

Deacon Green always hits the nail on the head, 
I 'm told, — though, never having seen him when 

he 's hammering, I can't speak from any positive 
knowledge. But he 's a right, smart good man, 
I 'm sure, and knows what he 's talking about. He 
is a new-comer in my neighborhood, and he lives 
in the red cottage across the road from the school- 
house, a little toward the west. If I hear him say 
anything more, I '11 let you know. 


Now, my chicks, I warn you that I 'm about to 
tell you an absurd story — "just for larks," some 
of you would say ; but I don't say it, for I have n't 
the slightest idea of amusing the larks at this mo- 
ment. Now listen sharply : 

" One day a brown thrush was resting on top of a 
post-and-rail fence, enjoying the cool morning air. 
Pretty soon a crow came hopping along the same 
fence, and the thrush quickly new away. A beauti- 
ful pigeon, that was calmly hopping about in a 
neighboring door-yard, picking up crumbs, did not 
see the crow, or he, too, would have hastened to 
take his departure. 

" Not so with a busy little sparrow in a maple 
tree on the other side of the field. He, too, saw 
the crow, but not being in the least afraid, he soon 
sought the cool grass at the maple's roots, and 
walked about as unconcernedly as possible. Soon 
he was joined by a fine young robin, and. strange 
to say, the crow, after eying them curiously for a 
moment as they walked about together, soared 
into the air and was seen no more." 

A simple story enough, is n't it ? And yet there 
are four mistakes of fact in it — mistakes which 
almost any really observing boy or girl should 
be able to detect at once. What are they? No 
grammarians or spelling-matches need apply. 
This, as I have said, is simply a question of fact. 
The first boy or girl who writes me a letter (in care 
of Editor of St. NICHOLAS), correctly pointing out 
my four mistakes, shall have a book — yes, the 
pretty schoolma'am shall send that clever chick a 
book as wise and pretty as herself ! 


Two little girls sat in my meadow the other day, 
reading "Alice in Wonderland." And how they 
laughed ! It must be a very funny book, thought 
I, and its author must be a jolly, rollicksome sort 
of fellow One of the little gins had just told the 
other that he was an Englishman who had been 
called Lewis Carroll, but that nobody knew his 
real name. Now, as I 'd seen Englishmen before, 
I could see this one in my mind's eye very clearly. 
Yes, there he stood, plain as day (though he was n't 
there at all, you understand), a great, florid, jolly, 
portly Englishman, with plaid trousers, and red 
side-whiskers — Mr. Anonymous Carroll, author of 
"Alice in Wonderland." 

But dear, dear! how mistaken one can be ! In 
less than ten minutes, and while the little girls '..till 
sat reading and laughing, the pretty schoolma'am 
came along. Both children jumped up eagerly — 

i8 7 5.] 



She had once visited England. Had she ever 
seen the author of "Alice in Wonderland " ? they 

' ' Oh, yes, indeed. " 

"Oh, do, do tell us all about him ! " cried the 
little girls in a breath. 

"I can't quite do that," said the pretty school- 
ma'am, laughing, "but I can tell you a little. His 
name is Dodgson — Rev. Charles Ludwig Dodgson. 
He is a youngish-looking man, with a very pleas- 
ant, earnest face, and a kind, gentle voice. He is 
rather small and thin, and so shy and modest that 
if his own Alice had met him in Wonderland, she 
would have said, in her simple way : ' Oh, don't 
stay here, sir; everything and everybody are so 
very strange that you '11 be quite uncomfortable. 
You wont understand them at all, sir, I 'm sure 
you wont.' " 


There 'S an early morning song, I 'm told, that 
belongs especially to cities and factory-towns. It 
is not a bird song exactly, but it is high and shrill 
and early birds with tools and aprons and kettles 
gather at its call. They are not yellow birds, nor 
blue birds, these early ones, — they have grimy faces 
and hard hands, — but they are strong and cheery, 
knowing well enough that fine feathers don't always 
make fine birds. 

Have ever you heard this morning song ? And 
do you not honor the early birds who flock at its 
call, and do so much of the world's work ? 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : Let me tell you of a wonderful thing. 
Yesterday some ladies and gentlemen went to Rockaway, on the 
shores of Long Island. They took me with them, because one of the 
ladies was my aunt. 

We enjoyed it very much. It was great fun to see the big waves 
come rolling up the beach, but the most astonishing thing was to see 
great quantities of potato-bugs all in a broad line along the beach, 
just as they had been, washed in by the sea. They were alive, and 
as we took up great handfuls of them, we had verv good evidence of 
the fact, though potato-bugs arc not 3s lively as crickets. One of the 
gentlemen of our party is called an agriculturist, and he cultivates a 
large farm. He said they certainly were potato-bugs. I can't tell 
you how many thousands of them we saw. I picked some up mvsclf 
from the top of the water. The agriculturist said he had read many 
accounts of dead potato-bugs lately being found on the sea-shore ; but 
these were alive. Water did n't even seem to wet them. 

Now, dear Mr. Jack, I 'd like to know if any olher of your boys 
have seen a sight just like this. — Your affectionate friend, 

Newark, August 25th, 1875. Hiram G . 


A KIND, good soul, who evidently has your in- 
terest at heart, sends a letter, my chicks, which she 
begs me to give you, so here it is. You should 
have seen it earlier, but as this number of ST. 
Nicholas will appear about the 20th of October, 
many of you may yet profit by its good advice : 

Dear Young Friends : Every year I hear of somebody who is 
dreadfully poisoned while gathering' the beautiful Autumn leaves. 
Let me tell you, then, how to avoid this danger. You may gather 
the long, pointed, serrate (or saw-edged) leaves of the S'lmach that 
has velvety-hairy stalks, and great bunches of purple-black berries 
sour to the taste. The berries are used by country people sometimes 
for making a dye for woo'en cloth or yarn. The leaves of this sumach 
are very handsome, and it is perfectly harmless. 

But you must not touch or go near (since its very effluvium is dan- 

gerous) the poison sumach, or dogwood, though its leaves are far 
more brilliant in scarlet and yellow than those of the harmless kind 
that they so closely resemble. You may know it by its loose clusters 
of yellowish-white fiuit. It generally grows in swampy grounds, 
while the harmless sumach is oftenest found on rich hill-sides. It is 
a pity that the poison sumach should ever have been called dogwood, 
since the real dogwood, which is a high tree with very large and 
showy white blossoms in Spring, and with lovely purple leaves in 
Autumn, is perfectly harmless. 

You may gather the crimson five-cleft leaves of the Virginian 
creeper, or American ivy, that has small blackish berries, and that 
climbs by fixing the ends of its tendrils like little suckers to its sup- 
ports ; but beware of the poison ivy, that lias three leaflets, and that 
climbs by loose, thread-like rootlets. It is very beautiful, but very 
poisonous You may know it by some one of its several other names: 
poison elder, poison oak, or mercury vine. The latter name is ap- 
plied to several other poisonous vines, in various parts of the United 
States. Let them all alone. 

The beautiful Autumnal woods are offering you such variety in 
form, color, and shade, that you need not gather leaves of these two 
forbidden sorts. M. B. C. Slade. 


JACK has received a letter from an old lady in 
South Carolina, in which she tells a true story for 
the benefit of my boys and girls. She says that 
she had been making some "home-made pills," 
and after they were all nicely shaped she put them 
out on the window-sill to dry. Pretty soon some 
blue jays came along, and not having anything 
better to do they swallowed every pill. The old lady 
went to the window just in time to see the last dose 
disappear, and so, as she says, she just had to make 
the best of it. Watching the jays, and wondering 
what effect the pills would have upon them, she 
saw them tumble about in a sort of confused state, 
and finally hide themselves away as best they could. 
In the morning they were found dead in her gar- 
den. The old lady felt very sorry for them, but 
she says she " could n't help thinking that perhaps 
it was all for the best, as the pills contained opium, 
and may be there was something wrong about 

Jack thinks so too. There is apt to be some- 
thing wrong about home-made things that contain 
opium. Better, however, to lose a few blue jays 
than to have a nice old lady killed in that way. 


Nordhoff. Ventura Co., California. 

Dear Jack : Do you realize how many little persons in all parts 
of the country eager y read your sermons of life and nature ? Have 
any of your messengers ever told you how the thrifty woodpecke 
of California stores away his food? His favorite diet seems to be 
acorns. He selects his tree, I think preferring a redwood or white- 
oak ; then bores or pecks the bark full of holes of the size of the 
acorn. _ When his harvest is ready, he immediately brings an acorn 
and tries until he finds a place where it will fit in nicely (if not put in 
tightly it would drop out"), inserts the smaller end, then pounds it in 
with his bill. It is interesting to watch him. His little red cap bobs 
to and fro until his store is safely packed. 

We have a very lar -e white-oak in our yard, which is inhabited by 
a colony I should think. The body or tfank am? every large limb are 
perforated with these holes, the most of which are now full. 

Yours, with good wishes, Jennie Lanner. 


Next month, I 'm told, St. Nicholas is to 
have a high-popolorum, full-rigged, double-decker 
of some sort by the Little School-mistress herself. 
And there 's sharp work expected from you, my 
youngsters ! There 's a prize, too. Deacon Green 
has a hand in it, I have n't the slightest shadow of 
a doubt. 





By Christina G. Rossetti. 

A is the Alphabet, A at its head ; 
A is an Antelope, agile to run. 

B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread, 

Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun. 

C is a Cornflower come with the corn ; 
C is a Cat with a comical look. 

ID is a dinner which Dahlias adorn ; 
D is a Duchess who dines with a 



E is an elegant, eloquent Earl ; 

E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges. 

F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl ; 
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges. 

•8 7 s.; 



Gr is the Gander, the Gosling, 

the Goose ; 
G- is a Garnet in girdle of 



H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues ; 
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold. 

I is an Idler who idles on ice ; 

I am I — who will say I am not I ? 

J is a Jacinth, a jewel ol price ; 
J is a Jay, full of joy in July. 

K is a King, or a Kaiser still 
higher ; 

K is a Kitten, or quaint Kang- 


L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre ; 
L is a Lily all laden with dew. 


M is a Meadow where Meadow-sweet 

blows ; 
1VE is a Mountain made dim by a mist. 

N is a nut — in a nutshell it grows ; 
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing 
— oh, list ! 



[ November, 

<"■ A?. - J"'' 

O is an Opal, with only one 

spark ; 
O is an Olive, with oil on its 



P is a Pony, a pet in a park ; 
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin. 

Q is a Quail, quick chirping at morn ; 

Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping. 





R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn ; 

R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping. 

S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea 
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing. 

T is the Tea-table set out for tea ; 
T is a Tio^er with terrible sorintr. 

TJ, the Umbrella, went up in a shower; 
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite. 

.8 7 S. J 




V is a Violet veined in the flower ; 

V is a Viper of venomous bite. 

"W stands for the water-bred Whale ; 
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay. 

X, or X X, or X X X is ale, 

Or Policeman X, exercised day after day. 

Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat ; 

Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew. 

Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat, 

Or Zebu, or Zoophyte, seen at the Zoo. 






Librarian. — " The Pretty School-mistress," to whom we referred 
your letter, writes in reply : 

There is good authority for Mr. Jack-in-the-Pulpit's remark that 
Leonardo da Vinci invented the wheelbarrow. 1 found the same 
statement in an Italian Life of this great painter, published in Milan 
in 1872, the author of which had the privilege of examining Leonardo's 
own manuscripts. Also, a writer in the Edinburgh Review, in an 
article on the " Lives" of this painter, after naming many useful things 
invented by Leonardo da Vinci, designs for and descriptions of which 
are found among his still existing manuscripts, adds — "And finally, 
last but not least, among the many things moved by wheel, the com- 
mon wheelbarrow." 

To be sure, the honor of this invention has been claimed for others. 
Some authorities give it to a certain Sieur Dupin, in 1669 ; others 
claim it for Pascal, somewhere in the middle of the same century ; 
and a surprising statement is to be found in the " Dictionnaire de 
Mobilier." In this work Viollet-le-Duc gives ajac-simi/c, as " Libra- 
rian " truly says, of a picture taken from a manuscript of the end of 
the thirteenth century, representing an odd-looking man wheeling 
what appears to be the bust of a king in a wheelbarrow ! 

The only way in which we can explain this matter, without directly 
doubting the evidence of Leonardo himself, is by supposing that in 
the old days, befoic telegraphs and rapid transits of any kind were 
known, a wheelbarrow, or any other needed thing, may have been 
invented and used in one place for even a century before it was heard 
of three hundred miles away. So there may have been half-a-dozcn 
worthy and honest inventors of this useful implement; in fact, it 
would hardly surprise me to find the wheelbarrow trundled back 
through the ages till it reached the workshop of the earliest inventor 
known to men— the " cunning worker," Tubal Cain. 

This beautiful poem, written by Mrs. Crowning as a tribute t:> 
Hans Christian Andersen, cannot fail to interest all lovers of the 
noble old poet, and is therefore republished here. It has also another 
claim upon us, that it is the last poem written by the great poetess : 

The North and the South. 

' Now give us lands where o'.ives grow," 
Cried the North to the South, 

• Where the sun with a golden mouth can blow 
Blue bubbles of grapes down a vineyard row!" 
Cried the North to the South. 

' Now give us men from the sunless plain," 
Cried the South to the North, 

' By need of work in the snow and the rain 

Made strong, and brave by familiar pain!" 

Cried the South to the North. 

' Give lucider hills and intenser seas," 

Said the North to the South, 
1 Since ever by symbols and bright degrees, 
Art, child-like, climbs to the dear Lord's knees! 1 

Said the North to the South. 

1 Give strenuous souls for belief and prayer," 

Said the South to the North, 
1 That stand in the dark on the lowest stair, 
While affirming of God, ' He is certainly there ! ' 

Said the South to the North. 

'Yet, oh, for the skies that are softer and higher!" 

Sighed the North to the South, 
1 For the flowers that blaze, and the trees that aspire, 
And the insects made of a song or a fire!" 

Sighed the North to the South. 

'And, oh, for a seer to discern the samr .' " 

Sighed the South to the North, 
' For a poet's tongue of baptismal flame, 
To call the tree and the flower by its name!" 

Sighed the South to the North. 

The North sent, therefore, a man of men 

As a grace to the South ; 
And thus to Rome came Andersen, — 
"A/as, but must you take him again?" 
Said the South to the North. 

Next month we shall publish in the " Riddle-box " a beautiful and 
original prize-puzzle. The prize will be something that our boys 
and girls will consider splendid, and we may print a picture of it. 
Full announcements will be made in our next number. 

The following answers have been received to the question in the 
September number regarding the course of a ship from New York to 
Liverpool : 

Lansingburgh, N Y., August 30th, 1875. 

Dear St. Nicholas: My sister sends the answer to — Why does 
a ship crossing the Atlantic, and sailing in a straight line from New 
York to Liverpool, sail a hundred miles further than a ship sailing 
from New York to Liverpool on a curved line up toward the north ? 
Because you canno' go direct, as you have to go around Ireland; 
therefore it would be nearer to go on a curved line than on a straight 
line. Laura S. Benedict. 

Dear St. Nicholas : A ship sailing from New York to Liverpool 
in a straight line would sail farther than in a line curving toward the 
north, because the arc of a great circle between two points is greater 
than the arc of a small circle between the same points. 

Darlin L. Ames. 

Parkersburg, W. Va., August 31st, 1875. 
Dear St. Nicholas : James S., in the September number of St. 
Nicholas, wishes to know why Baltimore was so named, and if there 
be any city of the same name in the Old World ? I do not know of 
any Baltimore in the Old World. About 1624, Sir George Calvert, a 
Roman Catholic nobleman, whose title was Lord Baltimore, wishing; 
to provide an asylum for the Catholics then persecuted in England, 
asked for a grant of land in America upon which to establish a colony. 
Charles L, the king, readily agreed to grant his request; but before 
the papers received the royal seal, Calvert died. The charter was 
then issued to his son Cecil, who, by the death of his father, succeeded 
to the title of Lord Baltimore. The first immigrants came over in 
1634, and commenced founding cities, one of which was called Balti- 
more, after Lord Baltimore. — Yours respectfully, 

Hattie A. Welles. 

We have also received answers to Jamie's questions from Mabel 
Hoskins, Mark W. C, "J. J.," J. C. Beardsley, "Namlig," and 
"Comus," all of whom agree with Hattie as to the origin of the 
name. But the second question must have been a hard one, for 
almost all the answers to it are incorrect. Mabel Hoskins, Mark W. 
C, and J. C. Beardsley assert that there is no Baltimore in the Old 
World, while "Comus" adds, "unless it be a small village." But 
that is just what it is, — a small seaport village in the south of Ireland- 
The American city of Baltimore certainly received its name in the 
manner described by Hattie, but the title of the peerage held by Sir 
George Calvert may have been derived from the name of this little 
Irish town. 

Here is a story by a very little girl : 


Magor was a large dog. He had a kind little master, so Magor 
was ever well off. He knew Merry every since he was a puppy. 
One day Merry and he were at play near the pond. Merry had quite 
forgoten what mama had told him not to go near the pond. Magor 
thout it would be nice to have a swim ; in he went. The little boy 
thought Magor was going to get very damp and cold. He was 
standing on the very edge of the pond, saying " Come back." He 
put out one fat hand. He gave a little cry — a splash. Merry had 
fallan. He had rose frist time when Magor caught him. Caried 
him home to mama. What do you think she did ? Why, she took 
Merry, did him up in blankets, put him in her own soft bed, and 
kissed his pale face many times. It was one week before Merry was 
himslfe agin. Six times Magor saved the little boy's life. Do you 
not think Magor ought to be loved for what he did ? — Mamie L. L. 

Here is something for young mathematicians and logicians : 

To the Editor of St. Nicholas : Allow me herewith to send 
you the following arithmetical puzzle, communicated to me by my 
father, and said to have originated with Moses Mendelssohn : 

Question. — How can you prove that there must be in the world at 
least two trees of the same number of leaves ? 

Solution. — It is certain that the number of trees in the world exceed 

■875. ! 



the greatest number of leaves on any one tree. Call the greatest 
number of leaves x, and the number of trees x plus y, and suppose 
all the trees have different numbers from / to x. Then, the tree 
x plus I must have a number of leaves ranging between I and x, for 
x is the greatest number of leaves on a tree. Therefore it must 
equal in the number of leaves one of the trees between I and x, and 
therefore there are two trees in the world which have the same num- 
ber of leaves. 

To make it plainer, let the greatest number of leaves on any one 
tree be i,ooo,ooo, and the greatest number of trees 1,000,001 ; and 
suppose all the trees have different number of leaves — the first having 
one leaf, the second two, the third three, &c. ; and as no one tree can 
have more than i,ooo,or-o leaves, therefore the first tree over one 
million must have an equal number of leaves with one tree between 
1 and 1,000,000, because it cannot have more than i,o'-.o,ooo, and as 
all the number of leaves between 1 and 1,000,000 have been given 
away, one of these numburs must be repeated. Therefore there are 
at least two trees in the world which have an equal number of leaves. 
— Respectfully yours, Morris Jastrow. 

It is not often that the boys receive such a decidedly practical 
question as is put to them this month by Bruce F. Johnson. He 
asks " if any boy can tell him the length of railroad in the United 
States, in America, in Great Britain, in Europe, in Asia, in Africa." 
He even includes Australia also, and closes with a request for " the 
total length of all the railroads in the world ! " 

We will answer the last question ourselves. At the close of 1374 
there were, in the whole world, 172,930 miles ot railroad, on which 
56,700 locomotives were employed to draw 103,700 passenger cars 
and 1,356,600 freight cars. 

San Francisco, August 18. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I live in California. I am nine years old, 
I live on Dolores Street. I think it is called so because there is an 
old Mission church on it, with graves round it — some of them more 
than a hundred years old. The church is a queer-looking old thing. 
It is made of adobe. 

I have thought of joining the Bird-defenders, but I cannot get my 
cat to join with me. I have a little paraquet, too. My cat is afraid 
to kill my paraquet, because it squeaks so ; but if it can get hold of a 
little chicken, it will kill it in a minute. What would you do with 
such a cat? Godfrey Birdsall. 

You had better join yourself, Godfrey, and, after awhile, you may 
be able to reform your cat. 

August 23d, 1875. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Yesterday, as I was going to Sunday- 
school, I met Sam Dog^an, and he had four robins in a cage, that he 
was going to give to bis cat. I teased him to let them go, but he 
pushed me away and said " Shut up." I teased him some more, and 
by and by he let them go. I am a Bird-defender, and am going to 
make Sam be one. My brother Harmon is six years old. I am 
eight. He wants his name put down for a Bird -de fender. Is he too 
little ? I got a few Bird-defenders ; they are my cousins though, ail 
but Harmon. Rob R. Sherman. 

No boy can be too little to be a Bird-defender — if he "wants" his 

name put down — nor too big. 

Always be early to school, 

Both in good and bad weather. 
And go according to rule, 

And then you 'II be good altogether. 
Then when your lessons are done, 

You'll be free from all sorrow and care; 
Away to the fields you can run, 

And be just as free as the air- 
But first be sure, of all things, 

Whatever you do or say, 
To hear the betl when it rings, 

For then you must give up your play. 
Your lessons should always be good, 

You should do as your teacher asks, 
Then when you 've learned all you could, 

You will be glad you have finished your tasks. 

When school-time 's at an end, 

Then you '11 enjoy your play; 
But that will all depend 

On your conduct for that day. 
Now this advice I freely give, 

And if you follow it well, 
In happiness you then will live, 

As your future life will tell. allie reich. 

Dear St. Nicholas : In the August number of your paper there 
was a piece telling how to make a sea-weed album. I would like to 
know if 1 could put leaves on paper in the same way ? — Yours truly, 

Harry Griffith. 

Yes, if your paper is not too thin. 

Effie Vanvolkfnberg and Others. — Yes, you are right 
Franklin was born in Boston. Jack either made a mistake, for once, 

or his statement was an ingenious device for waking his young 
hearers out of their August doze. 

Dear Editor : The following riddle has been in our family for at 
least fifty years, and no one has been able to solve it. Some of the 
most intelligent have tried it, and have failed. I thought I would 
submit the riddle to you, thinking that, through the pages of your 
magazine, you might find some one smart enough to name the 
' ancient city of no small renown." 

Hoping I may have my curiosity gratified, I shall look earnestly 
for an answer to the riddle. — Respectfully, Sarah B. Wilson. 

The noblest object in the works of art, 
The brightest gem that nature doth impart, 
The point essential in the lawyer's case, 
The well-known signal in the time of peace, 
The plowman's prompter when he drives the plow, 
The soldier's duty and the lover's vow, 
The planet seen between the earth and sun, 
The prize which merit never yet has won, 
The miser's treasure and the badge of Jews, 
The wit's ambition, and the parson's dues. 
Now, if your noble spirit can divine 
A corresponding word for every line, 
By all these various lessons will be shown 
An ancient city of no small renown. 

Luzeme, August 21st. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I saw a nice story in your September num- 
ber to-day from Fanme Hunt, about chickens and turkeys, so I 
thought I would write you about what happened at our house. 

Well, once a silky hen had a brood of chicks, and she took care of 
them awhile and left them ; and then two other hens that had wanted 
to set — but my father did n't want them to — took charge of the chicks 
and brought them up together. Well, those chickens could not tell 
which of the ihrec hens was their mother. Will you please tell me? 
^Yours truly. Annie T. Brown. 

San Francisco, August 1st, 1875. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Will you give the same presents next year, 
for the same number of subscribers, to those getting up clubs, that 
you printed last year? And when I get up a club, shall I count 
myself as one ? If I get four subscribers, and take the magazine my- 
self, would you give me a present for a club of five, 01 not ? I do 
not understand. Will you please answer, and oblige your friend and 
subscriber, Nellie. 

Yes, the premiums will continue the same as last year, and you 

can count yourself in your club. 


Belpre, Ohio, sends the following names: Mary Mackey, Ella Gar- 
loch, Flora Rarick, lone Henderson, Mary Clark, Willie Rounds, 
Eddie Hutchison, Willie O'Neal, Hugh Drain, Hattie Davis, Mina 
Cunningham, Mary Morgan, Lewis Gettle, Sallie Cawood, Anna 
Krebs, Laura Fumell, Harry Davis, Kate Browning, Chas. Parker, 
Joseph Lee, Jessie Henderson, Eddie Porter, Bradley Stone, Etrie 
Parker, Harry Ellenwood, Willie Seavclle, Charlie Dunbarger, Stone- 
wall Henderson, N. P. Armstrong, Johnson Garloch, Laura Smith, 
Mary Harrison, Nellie Price, Mattie Williams, Alden Williams, 
Mamie Gettle, Lonnie Hutchison, Odie Brown, Samuel Nuzum, 
Jennie Hunter, Morris Rarick, Madge Cunningham, Jennie Palmer, 
Clara Moore, Edna Rarick, Frank Hytton, Virgia Downer, Dorus 
Alderman, Willie Patton, Laura Woodward, Maggie Hadley, Jimmie 
Perry, Willie Jackson, TilHe Garloch, and Edward Rarick. 

Fannie Madison, of Cleveland, Ohio, sends this long list: Fannie 
Madison, Charlie Madison, Eddie Douglass, Carrie Nevins, Irene 
Corey, Fanny Doty, Ida Hoyt, Lula Fleming, Hattie Benington, 
Laura Jasmer, Emily Sheppard, Matrie Mayberry, Maggie Cowle, 
Katie Boegy, Jennie Turton, Fannie Hutton, Dasie Donahue, Ida 
Schuler, Mary Clark, Mary Mills, Lilhe Gerloch, Man- Gallagher, 
Annie Savoy, Nellie Parmalee, Fanny Shafer, David Kimberley, 
Henry Hollis, Tillie Nieber Harry Isbister, Charlie Jackson, Frank 
Bartholomew, William Dans, Henry Bower, Frank Cooke, Fred 
Wakefield, Charlie Taber, Charlie Lewis, Charley Danert, Lewis 




Presley, George Aastrup, Jason Thomas, Jimmie Crawford, Johnnie 
Hutchinson, Frank Sweeney, George Davis, Grant Donaldson, Katie 
Klaus, John Gillson, George Clark, Michael McKeon, Nellie Monk- 
man, Lewis Coe, and Katie Douglass. 

Josie Louis, of Centralia, 111., sends the following list: Josie Louis, 
Bertie Louis, Ella Louis, Alice Louis, Minnie Louis, Mamie Louis, 
Delia Louis, Moneta Loui=;, Susy Louis, Florence Louis, Ollie Louis, 
Gussie Louis, Fannie Louis, Laura Louis, Amanda Louis, Mamie 
Louis, Rachel Louis, Rebecca Louis, Addie Louis, Lottie Louis, 
Rosy Gregg, Jerome Louis, Willie Louis, Alvin Louis, Walter Louii, 
Julius Louis, Herbert Louis, Uria Louis, Riley Louis, Charlie Louis, 
Clarence Louis, Bobbie Louis, Percy Louis, Allie Louis, Jessie Louis, 
Ludwig Louis, Milton Gregg, Charlie Gregg, and Maria Louis. 

Thomas McGehan, of Hamilton, O., sends this list: Walter Kum- 
ler, Horace Belden, Lou Beauchamp, Harry Hay, Dan McGlynn, 
Will Roberts, John Hall, Nelly Phillips, Milt Traber, Harry Traber, 
Charlie Traber, Oliver Traber, John Traber, Web Fitton, Scott 
Sy mines, Chas. Cooch, Jim Durrough, Oliver Crow, Dode Hargitt, 
Alice Hankins, Nell Miller, Alex. M. Hall, Edward Shaffer, Vicky 
Smith, Thomas Collins, Cyrus Falconer, Ella Gilbert, Dave Howell, 
J. B Ousley, L. B Dilakort, J. W. Meckley, Tom Hodder, Laura 
Porter, Albion Dyer, Ed Flenner, Will Moore, Robert Peck, Charley 
Heiser, Ed Beardsley, Frank Skinner, Frank Whitehead, Charlie 
Mixer, and Harry McElwee. 

Herbert Dean sends the following list : Herbert Dean, John Scam- 
mon, John Keefe, Charles Kelley, Minnie Smith, Lucy Peabody, 
Mary Peabody, Jennie Littlcfield, Hattie Warsaw, Mary Taylor, 
Bell Odell, LilHa Brewster, Alice Healey, Katie Keefe, Nettie Hoag, 
Hattie Hoag, Fred Jewell, Fred Fadden, and Lizzie Young. 

Fannie O, Newton sends this list: Miss Selina C. Barrett, Miss 
Bertha Keeshorn, Lulu White, Fannie Stinde, Letitia Rogers, Abbie 
Sanford, Teresa Stall, Chartie Sanford, Fannie Rowland, Addie Stall, 
Lucy Thomas, Fannie Thomas, Katie Thomas, Miss Lucy Barrett, 
and Dorcas Carr. 

F. L. Chase, of Wobum, sends the following names: Erne C 
Sweetser, Nettie H. Fiske, Kittie Rose Fiske, Eddie H. Fiske, 
Florence L. Chase, Georgie H. Green, Georgie Hamlin, Charles F. 
Hamlin, and Lothrop Chase. 

"Two Friends" Hattie Johnson and E. Louise Tibbetts — send 
these names: Fannie Wilder, Grade Brooks, Carrie Johnson, Mamie 
Damon, Mrs. S. F. Damon, Miss Annie Damon, Hattie Johnson, 
E. Louise Tibbetts, and Frank Tibbetts. 

Max Ulrich, of San Antonio, Texas, sends these names: Mrs. 
Lewis, Mrs. Liffrieng, Mrs. Ulrich, Mr. Ulrich, Lewis Ulrich, and 
Max Ulrich. 

Rob R. Sherman sends his own and the following names : Harmon 
R. Sherman, Belle S. Howard, Walter Smith, and John A. Buck. 

Will E. B., of North Adams, Mass., sends this list : Lottie A. Mil- 
lard, Blanche C. Brayton, Hattie F. Brooks, and Hattie S. Brayton. 

Eslelle Riley, of Columbus, Texas, sends her own and the follow- 
ing names: Ida Riley, Katie Moore, and Emma Dclany. 

Lester Woodbridge sends this list : Irene E. Woodbridge, Bessy 
Woodbridge, Charley Woodbridge, and Lester Woodbridge. 

The following names also have been received : Walter H. Morrison, 
Charlie Morrison, Marian C. Morrison, Emilie Neville, Anita Hen- 
drie, Mary Ella Bakewell, Effie Eakewell, Mary B. Smith, Charles 
Willtox, Mamie Locke, Willie F. Morgan, Ida E. Kidd, Gertrude 
Gunn, L. H. Branch, Geo. Holden, Inez Simons, W. C. Houghton, 
and Herbie Houghton. 

Answers by the following boys and girls to puzzles in the August 
number were received too late for acknowledgment in the October 
number: Charlie and Frankie Rupert, H. Wigmore, Belle Gibson, 
Hattie Gibson, Lizzie Bloomfield, William M. Northrup, Edward 
Broome, Allie Anthony, Mary F. Crane, E. L. Tibbetts, Hattie F. 
Johnson, William C. Delanoy, Mark W. Collett, Le Roy and Coy 
Voumans, Alice Morrow. 



1 AM composed of forty-two letters. My 6, 19, 42, 16 
is a part of the head. My 40, 35, 14 is a cover for the 
head. My 5, 24, 2 is a quadruped. My 39, 1, 18 is 
another. My 15, 21, 17 is a pronoun. My 20, 41, 34 
is an insect. My 36, 26, 7 is a foreign product. My 
27, 9, II, 28 is constructed by birds. My 8, 3, 4, 31 is 
seen at night. My 37, ^S, 32 is a covering. My 12, 10, 
22, 29 is wealthy. My 30, 25, 23 is a kind of tree. My 
33, 13 is a musical note. My whole is a proverb. 




1. June, July, and August are Summer months. 2. 
But I came when you called. 3. She sings in grand 
style. 4. How slow Ellen's movements are. 5. Let 
Royce go with us to the store. 6. Lady Franklin sends 
Kane a telescope. F. J. and M. P. 


1. A consonant. 2. A personal pronoun. 3. A 
writing instrument. 4. A fairy. 5. A prank. 6. A bad 
man. 7. A term in music. 8. A musical instrument. 
9. A terrible disease. 10. Weariness. The diagonals 
form a household sunbeam. L. O. 


The missing words in the following stanzas being 
supplied, the initials and finals will give the names of — 
(1) A great poet ; (2) A great composer : 

1 . "Windy , with its frolic gales, 

Filling the woods with their musical roar ; 
While over the water scud wet white sails, 

And the foam breaks fast on a rough lee-shore." 

2. " Now the goat may climb and crop 
The soft grass on Mount — — 's top." 

■ Moonshine and - 

• are left to bury the dead." 

4. " Which like the , ugly and venomous, 

Bears yet a precious jewel in its head." 

5. " The silvery green of the shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower." 

6. " And, by all the world forsaken, 

Sees he how with zealous care, 

At the ruthless of iron, 

A little bird is striving there." H. H. 





FIRST, I am a bird. Change my head, I am part of a 
ship ; again, I am to pull ; again, and I am dim ; again, 
I am replete ; again, and I am to quiet. C. C. 

CHARADE, No. 1. 


To greet the morning sun I rise, 

And trill my gladness through the skies. 


I guard the fowl, yet the noble horse 
I torture oft without remorse. 


In pink and white and blue I dress — 
What am I ? Children, can you guess ? 

A. o'n. 


ENIGMA, No. a. 

I AM composed of twelve letters. My 5, 8, 3, 12 is 
the name of a tree. My 10, 4, II, I, 2 is food for the 
sick. My 7, 5,6, 11 is the name of a queen. My 2, 9, 
4, II is what every boy would like to be. My whole 
is a part of St. Nicholas. s. c. M. 


Contentment's simple, smiling flower, 

Fair blossoms that at twilight sleep, 
Bright, golden cups from Spring's glad bower, 

And bells that through the snow-rifts peep ; 
Rich Autumn clusters, full and gay, 

Devotion's loveliest, rarest bloom, 
Then, " for remembrance," here 's the spray 

And tendrils from the ruins' gloom. 
We 've gentlest sprigs of fragile white, 

And waxy buds, intensely sweet, 
And flag-like flowers, both fair and bright, 

With blooms immortelle, here we meet. 
The " trophy flower " we gladly bind ; 

The wind's frail love has, too, a place ; 
And now a spicy twig we find 

To mingle with the " Daystar's " grace. 

From Summer woods we cull the pride, 

And from the porch meek springs we bring, 

Spring's sweetest scented buds beside 
We lay the Flow'ret poets sing; 

And last of all, with fragrance mild 
We place the streamlet's radiant child. 

These flowers, from garden, wood and dell, 
A gay and perfumed garland mak£; 

To enshrine a name you '11 surely tell, 
If you the pains will only take. 

The name is one all children loved — 

A name first known in snow-clad climes ; 

But now well-known in every land, — 
See can you find it in these rhymes. 


Fill one blank with the name of some game, and 
the other with the same name transposed. 

1. Thegameof often occasions . 2. A 

challenge to play a game of was . 3. 

Never cheat as . 4. I have passed 

pleasant the game of . 5. Charlie thinks 

Mary silly, would n't play at her age. 

6. He disconsolately, having lost his . 7. 

Strength must be playing . S. Little 

children, older ones, like to play . 9. 

is an excellent sort of game. 10. The 

only game was a little on . CHARL. 

CHARADE, No. 2. 

If my first is my second, 

'T is sure to be fleet ; 
If my second 's my first, 

It is not fit to eat 5 
And what is my whole 

Will depend upon whether 
My second and first 

You fit rightly together. 
If my second comes first, 

'T is an animal ; but 
If my second comes second, 

Why, then, 't is a nut. 
So if it 's an animal, 

Then you may back i t ; 
But supposing it is n't — 

I leave you to crack it. L. H. 


I. A consonant. 2. To place anything. 3. An ac- 
count. 4, A wild animal. 5. To mark out. 6. Before. 

7. A consonant. L. o. 


Fill the blanks in each sentence with the same word, 
one meaning of which is a boy's name : 

1. helped to raise the weight by holding the 

. 2. rode to the seaside in a . 3. 

wheeled the coal to the pit in a . 4. The only thing 

noticed in the church was the which hung 

from the ceiling. 5. loved to be in all his 

assertions. 6. was fond of the bark of the . 

7- ornamented his box with a border of . S. 

lifted the stone to its place with a . 9. 

gave his pennies for a . 10. gathered a bunch 

of for a friend. 11. threw a toy boat into the 

to watch it whirl. 12. refused to join the 

boys who thought it sport to the rabbit. 13. 

lighted his pipe with a . 14. plucked a flower 

of the in the woods. B. 

6 4 




(The central picture indicates the whole word from the letters of which the words represented by the other design are to be formed.) 


Prefix Puzzle. — (Prefix " Sp.") - Splash, Spoil, Spun, Spring, 
Spurn, Sparrow, Spade, Spear, Spice, Spell, Spy, Sprite, Space, 
Spleen, Spoke, Spark, Sphere, Sprinkle, Spend. 

Double Acrostic. — Foundation-words : Andersen — Children. — 
i. Arabic. 2. Noah. 3. Delhi. 4. Evil. 5 Richard. 6. Silver. 
7. Eve. 8. Napoleon. 

Easy Cross- Word.— Mabel. 

Transmi'tations. — i Effaces 
United. 5. Elbow. 6. Embarks, 
cles. 10. Calashes. 

Pyramid Puzzle. — 1. A. 2. Tu 

2. Embroils. 
7. Catarrh. 8. 

3. Ensigns. 4. 
Usurer, o. Arti- 

3. Larva. 4. Alkanet. 5. 

Transpositions - t. Churl — lurch. 2. Shoot — hoots. 3. Braved 
— adverb. 4. Yufts — fusty. 5 Below — elbow. 6 Quills — squill. 
7. Eglantine — inelegant. 8. Rescind— discern. 

Reversals. — The answer to this puzzle is held over until next 

Square-Word. — 1. Pearl. 2 Eyrie. 3. Aroma. 4. Rimed. 5. 

Hidden Countries.— i. Chili. 2. Peru. 3. Utah. 4. China. 5. 

Pictorial Enigma. — (Landscape.)— 1. Seal. 2. Scale. 3. Plan. 
4. Pan. 5. Ape. 6. Cape. 7 Sea. 8. Den. 9. Lad. 10. Leap. 
11. Spade. 12. End. 13. Lace. 

Answers to Puzzles in September Number were received, previous to September 18, from Edwin E. De Vinne, Willie Dibblee, 
G. E. M., Florence and Helen Gardiner, N. A. H., P. C. K., Alice Dudley, A E. J., " Ella and Edith," " Nimble Dick,*' Warren E. Thomas, 
"Fun See," Katie T. Hughes, Gertrude Gunn, "Allie," Julia Sanford and MolHe Willett, Mollie Donohue, " Flora and Ada," L. M, Berke- 
ley, Maggie Shanahan, Arthur Collier, "Peanuts," A. G. Cameron, Laurens T. Postell, "Virgil," Arthur E. Smith, " Henry and Maddie," 
Josie R. Ingalls, Clelia D. Mosher, Charles Coleman, Henry J. Warren, Fanny Eaton, Mary J. Tilghman, " Howard and Gussie," W. H. 
Rowe, P. H. Wigmore, Charles W. Hornor, Jr., Minnie M. Tooker, Lester Woodbndge, Lizzie Merrill, Reinette Ford, and Stella Jones. 

[Other names will be credited next month.] 

^<W ^*A-= 



Vol. III. 

DECEMBER, 1875. 

No. 2. 

By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 

" My life is a beautiful fairy-tale," says Hans 
Christian Andersen ; " happy and full of incident." 
And, indeed, if you had read his own account of it, 
you would think it was as good a fairy-tale as was 
ever written. 

There was very little difference to him between 
a real story and a fairy-tale ; for his own fairy-tales 
were always very real to him, and, as I once heard 
him say, " Every man's life is a fairy-tale written 
by God's finger." 

This was, indeed, the strain in which he always 
spoke whenever he told the wonderful. story of his 
childhood in the little city of Odense, his journey 
to Copenhagen, and his rise — not to fortune and 
power, but to what is far better than fortune 
and power — to a place in the hearts of all little 
boys and girls all over the wide world ; for his 
stories are, perhaps, the only books except the 
Bible that have been translated, not only into 
English and French tind German, but even into 
Japanese and Hindostanee, and all manner of 
strange languages. Little brown-cheeked Hindoo 
children, sitting under the broad-leafed palm-trees 
on the banks of the Ganges, read the tales of 
"The Little Match-Girl," "The Ice-Maiden," and 
" The Elder-Tree's Mother." Little Chinese boys, 
with yellow skin and sloping eyes, and with queer 
names like Fu-Sing-Ho and Ching-Chang-Chuck 
(a sort of monosyllabic beads strung together with 
hyphens), laugh until the tears run down their 
cheeks at the adventures of "The Tin Soldier" 
and the councilor in " The Slippers of Fortune." 
Dark-eyed Spanish and Italian mothers tell these 
Vol. III. —5. 

same stories to their children, sitting at their bed- 
sides before kissing them good-night. And in the 
North — in Denmark and England and Norway 
and Sweden — there is hardly a child who has not 
rejoiced in the good fortune of Little Tuk who 
learned his geography lesson in his sleep, and cried 
over the unhappy fate of Knud in " Under the 
Willow-Tree." And at night, when the old Chil- 
dren's Poet sat at his table, and the student-lamp 
with the green shade threw a large ring of light 
around it, while a sort of greenish dusk seemed to 
fill the rest of the room, then all these children 
came from all parts of the earth, and their curly 
heads and chubby faces thronged around their old 
poet, — for then he was writing a story for them, 
and they were eager to see what it might be. 
When he had written something which was very 
funny, all the little boys and girls laughed, and 
their bright laughter filled the room ; but when 
the poet had gone to bed and was asleep, the 
laughter followed him in his dreams, and it grew 
and grew, rippling onward from land to land, until 
all th» children in Germany, England, Asia and 
America laughed at the funny thing he had written. 
But if it was something sad, then their eyes grew 
big with tears, and the tear went from land to land 
as the laughter had done. 

Hans Christian Andersen was born in the city 
of Odense, on the island of Funen, April 2d, 1805, 
and he died in Copenhagen, August 4th, 1875. 
His father was a poor shoemaker, and lived with 
his wife and child in a small room, which had to 
serve them as parlor, bedroom, nursery, and 




kitchen. The bed in which the whole family slept 
the shoemaker had himself made out of the cata- 
falque of a deceased nobleman, and the funeral 
trappings of black cloth, which the father no doubt 
thought very ornamental, were still attached to the 
frame. While Hans Christian was a child, he 
mostly amused himself with sewing dolls' clothes 
and arranging puppet theaters; and his mother, 
who fancied that it would be a great thing if in 
time he could become a tailor, gave him all the 
rags and paper she could spare. But he did not 
like the idea of being a tailor ; he would much 
prefer to be a prince or a noble, or perhaps a king, 
who could wear fine gold-embroidered clothes and 
ride in a gilt carriage of his own, drawn by six 
beautiful horses. But as there was little prospect 
of his being made king in any ordinary way, he 
thought of all sorts of extraordinary ways ; and it 
was on this account that he took such pleasure in 
his theater, because there he could make himself 
king or general, or even emperor, and in fact any- 
thing he chose, and even believe in it himself for 
the moment. Indeed, there was nothing too in- 
credible for him to believe. One day, for instance, 
an old woman who washed clothes told him that 
the empire of China was situated under the river 
of Odense. "And," says Andersen in " The Story 
of My Life," " I did not find it at all impossible 
that a Chinese prince, some moonlight night when 
I was sitting there, might dig himself through the 
earth up to us, hear me sing, and then take me 
with him to his kingdom, make me rich and noble, 
and finally let me visit Odense, where I would live 
and build me a castle. Many an evening did I 
occupy myself with tracing and making ground- 
plans for it." 

You see, then, that fairy-stories came very natu- 
ral to Andersen, for he was hardly five years old 
when he had made a fairy prince of himself, and 
imagined himself living in a palace. And ever 
since then has he been continuing that fairy-tale ; 
it had a great many chapters, each one of which 
was always brighter and prettier than the one 
before. The first you have already heard ; it was 
about a poor shoemaker's child in Odense who 
sewed dolls' clothes and wished he were a prince ; 
the last was sent by telegraph across the Atlantic 
Ocean only a few months ago, and that too, although 
it brought tears to many eyes, was not altogether a 
message of sorrow. It told that a great poet, whom 
all children loved, was dead ; but I shall tell you 
about that presently. 

When Andersen was only five or six years old 
he lost his father, and his mother had to take in 
washing to support herself and her son. Like many 
other poor children, he was sent to a factory where 
he was to work ; but the laborers there teased him 

and made sport of him, and, as he was not a brave 
boy, he ran home to his mother and said that he 
would never go back again ; and his mother petted 
him, and yielded to his wish. In school he hardly 
fared much better ; the school-mistress, who sat 
with a long rod in her hand at the end of the table, 
once happened to hit him, and again he ran away, 
and, as usual, his mother indulged him. In the 
house of an old lady, Mrs. Bunkeflod, he now got 
hold of a translation of Shakespeare, and imme- 
diately began to write a tragedy of his own, in 
which everybody killed himself or was killed by 
somebody else. 

In Denmark every boy and girl must spend a 
year in preparing for confirmation, and during this 
time they receive religious instruction once or twice 
a week from the pastor of the parish. Andersen 
went with a great many other children to such a 
black-robed pastor, and was at last confirmed. 
But because his parents were poor, and his clothes 
were a great deal too large for him, the boys would 
have nothing to do with him, and only a little girl 
now and then addressed a kind word to him, for 
which he was very grateful. He was "a regular 
girl's boy," his companions said ; he cried when 
you hit him, and never struck again, and he cared 
neither for leap-frog nor marbles. But he was very 
fond of books, and sat at home reading when other 
boys were at play. 

When he was confirmed, his mother tried with 
all her might to persuade him to learn the tailor's 
trade ; but instead of that, he wanted to go to 
Copenhagen and become famous. And as she 
could not induce him to do as she wished, she 
yielded and allowed him to do as he pleased. So 
she gave him all the money she had, which was 
about five dollars, imd with this in his pocket he 
started out for Copenhagen. There he called upon 
an actress, in the hope of getting a situation at the 
theater ; he told her, with child-like openness, the 
whole history of his life, and, to prove his efficiency 
as an actor, began to declaim poetry to her, and at 
last to dance, until she was quite frightened, and 
thought that he was out of Jiis mind. His money 
was soon spent, and he walked about the streets, 
not knowing what to do ; but in his distress, it 
occurred to him to appeal for aid to the Italian 
singer Siboni, whose name he had once seen in a 
newspaper ; and Siboni received- him kindly and 
helped him until he caught a severe cold and lost 
his voice. Other kind people, however, gradually 
became interested in the gentle, warm-hearted lad, 
and some even offered to instruct him gratuitously 
in German, Danish and Latin. It was at this time 
that he became acquainted with the councilor 
Collin (a man well known in Danish history), who 
interested himself sincerely in his welfare, and in 



6 7 

whose family he was henceforth received as a son. 
The King, at Collin's suggestion, granted an annual 
sum for his education, and he was sent to the Latin 
school at Slagelse, where he was to prepare for the 
University. The principal of this school (or rector, 
as he was called in Denmark) was a harsh and hot- 
tempered man, who hardly understood how to deal 
with a timid and sensitive boy like Andersen ; so 
he made a scapegoat of him, and held him up to 
ridicule before the school, and, considering the 
usual pitilessness of boys toward a less favored 
comrade, it is almost a wonder that the scholars 
did not imitate the teacher's example. Imagine a 
tall, lank, pale-faced lad of sixteen, with a very 
large nose, light curly hair, stooping shoulders, 
and very long arms, which he seemed never to 
know what to do with ; add to this that he belonged 
to the very lowest class, where he loomed up above 
the neads of all the rest, and that he never was 
known to return a blow, and it does seem strange 
that nobody except the teacher tried to take advan- 
tage of him. In order to console himself in the 
midst of his loneliness, he wrote poems, and, during 
a visit in the Christmas vacation to the Collin 
family, was induced to read some of them aloud at 
an evening party. The principal, on learning this, 
took him severely to task, declared his poems to be 
miserable trash, and forbade him writing any more 
in future. 

At last, after # many years of arduous study, 
Andersen entered the University of Copenhagen, 
— or became a student, as the Danes call it, — and 
now, at last, his life began to turn up its brighter 
pages before him. It is a great thing to be a civis 
academicus, or a student, in Denmark ; the Uni- 
versity, with its graduates and under-gradiiates, 
forms, as it were, a world by itself, in sharp con- 
trast to the Philistines, or merchants, artisans, and 
trades-people, who have not had the advantage of 
a collegiate education. No man can hold an office 
under the Government -without being a graduate 
of the University or one of the military academies, 
and the so-called best society consists almost ex- 
clusively of Government officials, army officers, 
and still unemployed University people. To this 
society the young poet was now admitted, — no 
longer by grace, but by virtue of his position and 
his own merit. He immediately turned his atten- 
tion earnestly to writing, and in a short time 
finished his first book, ' - A Journey on Foot to 
Amager." He had evidently learned from his 
rector in Slagelse that his own traits of character — 
his maidenly shyness and his readiness to weep 
over everything — had its ludicrous side, and in this 
book he shows himself as quite a different man. 
You hardly recognize the lachrymose, sentimental 
youth you knew at Slagelse ; here he tries his best 

to make fun of everything, and as there is nothing 
which people like better than fun, his book had a 
large sale, and soon everybody talked about it and 
the newspapers were full of it. Encouraged by his 
success, he published an edition of his collected 
poems", which also was received with great favor; 
and with the money which this brought him, he 
started on a journey through Zealand, Funen, and 
Jutland. It was on this journey that he met a 
young girl with whom he fell deeply in love, but 
who, unfortunately, at the time was engaged to 
another man, and as Andersen never met another 
woman whom he could love as he loved this girl, 
he remained unmarried all his life. Many years 
later, a peasant girl, who had heard about him as 
a great and world-renowned poet, whom all men 
honored, — and who, I believe, had also read some 
of his stories, — took it into her head that he was 
the one man she wanted to marry. So she started 
out for Copenhagen, where Andersen was then 
living, went to his house, and told him her errand. 
You can imagine how astonished he must have 
been at being told by a young, handsome girl that 
she wished to marry him. 

" I should be so very good to you," said she, 
" and always take good care of you." 

" But, my dear girl, I don't wish to be married," 
answered he ; and she departed as suddenly as she 
had come. 

After his return from his journey, he published 
a small book containing a description of " The 
West Coast of Jutland," and then went to Ger- 
many, where he became acquainted with the famous 
German authors Tieck and Chamisso. He had now 
no longer any royal stipend, and had to write con- 
stantly in order to support himself; and as no kind 
of writings are so profitable as dramas and com- 
edies, he undertook to adapt Walter Scott's " Bride 
of Lammermoor " and " Kenilworth " to the stage, 
receiving the assistance of two musicians, Weyse 
and Harttmann, who composed the music. But 
the Danes are very fond of their own little country, 
and believe that there is no literature in the world 
equal to their own. Therefore they ridiculed this 
attempt of Andersen's to introduce a foreign novel- 
writer upon their stage. The critics all turned 
against him ; people, whether they knew him or 
not, had the impudence to lecture him, and some 
even made wry faces at him in the street. Even 
his previous works were now condemned. Once it 
even happened that a clergyman attacked his 
poems at an evening party where Andersen him- 
self was present, passing over everything that was 
good, and only counting, for instance, how many 
times the word "beautiful" was repeated on even- 
page. At last, a little girl, six years old, who had 
been following in the book, and had found that 




almost every word had been attacked, turned to 
the clergyman and said, quite innocently : " There 
is one word yet which you have not scolded about. 
It is ' and.' " 

To be attacked at an evening party may be bad 
enough ; but, according to Danish notions; there 
is one thing which is still worse, and that is to be 
attacked in print. And at this time the now de- 
ceased poet Henrik Hertz published, without his 
name, a series of poems called " Letters from the 
Dead," in which he makes a Danish author, 
Baggesen, amuse himself in Paradise by ridiculing 
Andersen and many other living men. The poems 
were very wittily written, and had a great success. 
Andersen felt completely crushed, and the Danes 
thought that now, at last, he was demolished for- 
ever. Meanwhile, his true friend, Collin, who saw 
how very unhappy he was, advised him to ask the 
King for a stipend for foreign travel ; and the 
King, on the recommendation of a great many dis- 
tinguished men, granted the stipend, and Ander- 
sen once more hastened out into the wide world. 

After a slow and tedious journey through Ger- 
many, he reached Paris, where a number of young 
Danes were at that time studying; but, as foreign- 
ers are very apt to do, they kept constantly together 
and spoke only their own language. Thus, at the 
end of three months, our poet knew hardly any 
more of French than he did at his arrival. He, 
therefore, hastened away from Paris, and in the 
month of August took up his residence in the little 
village Le Locle, in the Jura Mountains, where all 
the houses are filled with watches and all the in- 
habitants are watchmakers. Here he finished a 
poem, " Agnete and the Merman," which he had 
commenced in Paris, and sent it home to Copen- 
hagen to be printed. And printed it was, and 
very cruelly ridiculed and attacked on all sides. 
Andersen felt that if he was to maintain his posi- 
tion as an author, he would have to produce some 
larger work, the merit of which would be beyond 
dispute, and which should compel his countrymen 
to recognize the genius which he knew he pos- 
sessed. Therefore, during his stay in Italy, where 
he went during the following Winter, he began his 
great romance, " The Improvisatore," which you 
must be sure to read some time in your life, if you 
have not read it already. In Rome, Andersen met 
the great Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen, who was 
born on the ocean between Iceland and Denmark, 
and who descended from Snorre Thorfinsen, accord- 
ing to the Norse Sagas the first white man born 
on the American continent.* Thorwaldsen was a 
most noble and kind-hearted man, who encouraged 
Andersen by his hearty praise, and remained a 

good friend to him as long as he lived. " The 
Improvisatore," although the hero of the book is 
an Italian and not a Dane, describes the author's 
own struggles and sufferings in his efforts to obtain 
recognition for himself as a poet. And if Ander- 
sen had not suffered so much, and been so sensitive 
to suffering, he could hardly have described with 
such truthfulness the sufferings of another. The 
book is, at the same time, perfectly Italian in senti- 
ment, and is a most beautiful account of the life, 
scenery, and traditions of that beautiful land. 

Now followed, in quick succession, two more 
novels,— " Only a Fiddler" and " O. T.,"— both 
interesting narratives of popular life in Denmark. 
The letters "O.T." mean "Odense Tugthus " (the 
penitentiary of Odense), where the hero happens 
to be born, and, according to custom, he has these 
two letters burned into his arm, like any other 
criminal. When he is old enough, he leaves the 
penitentiary ; but the dreadful mark still clings to 
him, and, of course, it leads to many strange ad- 
ventures, which I shall not tell you, but leave you 
to find out by yourselves, if you care to get the 

The success of these novels made a great change 
in Andersen's fortunes. The Count Conrad of 
Rantzau-Breitenburg (all nobles, you know, have 
very long and hard names, and the nobler they are 
the longer their names are), who was then Prime 
Minister of the kingdom, had read "The Impro- 
visatore," and now went to find the author in his 
little lonely garret, high up under the roof. He 
invited him to come and visit him in his great 
castle in Holstein, and offered him his friendship ; 
and by means of that friendship, the poor poet, 
who 'hitherto, in spite of the great sale of his books, 
had hardly had money enough to buy his clothes, 
obtained an annual salary from the Government, 
which was continued to his death. And this may- 
be the reason why those who have read " The 
Story of My Life." have got the idea that Andersen 
was a snob. He did certainly adore rank and 
royalty — not, perhaps, because he considered kings 
and nobles to be better than other people, but 
because they always stood by him when he was in 
trouble, and were his friends when the critics and 
the whole public of the capital treated him with 

Some time later appeared a drama called " The 
Mulatto," which was brought out in the Theater 
Royal of Copenhagen, and added to the fame of 
the author. His works now began to appear in 
translations in English, German, French, Swedish, 
Russian, Bohemian, and, in fact, in all European 
languages. Favorable criticisms appeared in for- 

1 Snorre Thorfinsen was born in the year 1008, when, according to the Sagas, the Norsemen for the second time discovered America. 
{See R. B. Andersen's book, "America Not Discovered by Columbus." Griggs & Co., Chicago. 1874.) 

l8 7S -J 


6 9 

eign journals, and Andersen was hailed everywhere 
as Denmark's greatest poet. The Danes them- 
selves shook their heads doubtfully, and long re- 
fused to listen to the strange rumors from abroad, 
until at last the beautiful " Wonder-Stories " began 
to appear, and they, too, had to open their eyes 
and acknowledge that they had been mistaken in 
their judgment. 

After that time Andersen went abroad almost 
every year, and wherever he came everybody 
flocked to see him ; collegians came in torchlight 
processions to serenade him, and kings and princes 
invited him to their palaces, made him costly pres- 
ents, and asked him to read his own stories to 
them, — for Andersen had a most beautiful and 
sympathetic voice, and read his own works wonder- 
fully well. I can speak here from my own experi- 
ence, for I once heard him read " The Ugly 
Duckling," and I shall never forget it. There was 
something so strangely soft and sweet and child- 
like in his manner of pronouncing his own soft 
language. English he understood, but spoke it 
very poorly ; he was hardly much more proficient 
in French, but spoke German with great fluency, 
although with a decidedly foreign accent. 

Of his later works, " The Wonder-Stories," which 
you all know ; the novel, " The Two Baronesses ; " 
and the biographies, " The Story of My Life " and 
"A Poet's Bazaar," may be worthy of mention. 
Besides these, he has written a great many dramas, 
which had their day of success, but are now nearly 

It was in September, 1873, now two years ago. 
that I met Andersen. He was then very sick, and 
sat in a large easy-chair, wrapped in a flowered 
dressing-gown. He always held my hands in his 
while I sat at his side talking with him, and I saw 
the tears coming into his eyes when I told him how- 
much the children in America loved him, how well 
they knew his stories, and how happy they would 
be if he would come over here and let them see 

"Ah, yes," he said, ''I have thought of that 
many times. But now I am too old and stiff in my 
legs. If you could telegraph me across to the 
American children, I should start to-morrow. I 
am never very well on the ocean. But if you write 
anything about me, as you say you are going to do, 
you may give my love to all the little boys and girls 
who know my stories, and tell them that I would 
have come if I had not been so old and sick." 

His hair was quite white then, for he was sixty- 
eight years old ; his face was very pale, as it always 
was, but there was a beautiful, gentle, and affec- 
tionate expression in his gray eyes, which made 
one quite forget that he was really a homely man. 
He was fully six feet tall, but stooped heavily when 

he walked ; and somehow, even in his old age, he 
seemed to prefer coats and pantaloons that were 
too large for him, and as far removed from the 
reigning fashion as possible. Wherever he went 
in the quaint old city of Copenhagen, the children 
flocked about him, climbed up on his knees, and 
even on his shoulders, in order to listen to his 
stories. And when he heard of a little boy or girl 
who was sick, he was sure to come and sit at his or 
her bedside, and tell the most charming fairy-tales 
about storks, and princes, and plants, and all kinds 
of animals, until the child quite forgot that it was 
sick, and only seemed to see the beautiful things 
which he told. In the streets the boys always took 
off their hats to him, — for all boys knew him, — 
and the little girls curtseyed, while he stopped to 
pat their cheeks. 

A friend of mine, who was quite an old boy 
when this happened, once came very near losing 
his eyesight. He was brought to the hospital, 
where nobody knew him, and the room was dark- 
ened, so that he could see nothing, not even his 
own hand when he held it up before his eyes. He 
had lain in this way for a whole week, and almost 
wished he were dead, when one evening there 
came a gentle tap on the door, and a man entered 
and sat down on the bedside. My friend did not 
know the man ; and even if he had known him, it 
would have been too dark to see his face. 

" I am Hans Christian Andersen," said the man. 
" I heard that you were sick, and I have been sick 
myself, and know what it is. Would you allow me 
to sit down and talk to you, and tell you some 
stories ? " 

My friend, naturally enough, was very grateful, 
and did not object to being entertained. And 
almost every night for two weeks Andersen re- 
turned. When the thick curtains could be drawn 
aside from the windows, he read aloud, mostly his 
own writings, for he liked better to read his own 
stories and poems than those of others. This is 
only one of a hundred incidents of the same kind 
which the people in Copenhagen tell of him ; and 
no one will wonder that, with all his peculiarities 
and odd habits, they could not help loving him. 
He was a dear and beloved friend in every house- 
hold ; from the King down to the poorest artisan, 
every one knew and honored him. Every door 
and every heart was open to him. They no longer 
lectured and criticised him ; every page that he 
wrote was eagerly grasped by young and old, and 
read with pleasure and gratitude. 

At his death all the kingdom mourned ; and not 

only Denmark, but Norway, Sweden, and Ger- 

. many sent wreaths of the most precious flowers to 

adorn his coffin. The royal family, the officers of 

the army, the students and processors of the Uni- 




versity, guilds of artisans, all the literary men of 
the city, and, in fact, all who could throng into the 
large church of Our Lady, were present at the 
funeral and followed in a long procession to his 
grave. Subscriptions have now been taken up to 
erect a statue to him, and from everywhere — from 
city and country — contributions have been pour- 
ing in. 

One thing more. You remember the story of 
" The Ugly Duckling," which the hens and chick- 
ens were always pecking at because he was not like 
them ; and the ducks hated him because he was not 

quite like them either. For a long time it was a 
very unhappy kind of life he led there in the 
poultry-yard. But at last there came two large, 
majestic birds sailing down the stream. The ugly 
duckling suddenly spread his wings and flew toward 
them. He felt that he was one of them — and three 
swans rose high in the air. 

That ugly duckling (I know it on the very best 
authority) was the poet himself. He suffered long . 
among the hens and ducks, but at last he rose 
high above them, and now they all see that he was 
a swan — a great poet. 

[In the frontispiece, in the center of which is an entirely 'new portrait of Andersen, you will see in the upper left hand corner a picture 
of "The Ugly Duckling." Under this is the "Elder- Tree Mother," and in the lower left hand corner we see the good Councilor Knapp. 
In the upper right hand corner is " Little Tuk," and under it " The Little Match-Seller." In the lower right hand comer you see a scene in 
"Under the Willow-Tree." At the top, in the middle, is " The Brave Tin Soldier," and at the bottom we have a scene from "The Ice 

By H. H. 

The tales of good St. Nicholas 

Are known in every clime ; 
Told in painting, and in statues, 

And in the poet's rhyme. 
For centuries they 've worshiped him, 

In churches, east, and west; 
Of all the saints we read about 

He is beloved the best. 
Because he was the saint of all 

The wretched and the poor, 
And never sent a little child 

Unsuccored from his door. 
In England's isle, alone, to-day, 

Four hundred churches stand 
Which bear his name, and keep it well 

Remembered through the land. 
And all the little children 

In England know full well 
This tale of good St. Nicholas, 

Which I am now to tell. 
The sweetest tale, I think, of all 

The tales they tell of him ; 
I never read it but my eyes 

With tears begin to swim. 

There was a heathen king who roved 

About with cruel bands, 
And waged a fierce and wicked war 

On all the Christian lands. 
And once he took as captive 

A little fair-haired boy, 
A Christian merchant's only son, 

His mother's pride and joy. 
He decked him in apparel gay, 

And said, "You 're just the age 
To serve behind my chair at meat, 

A dainty Christian page." 
Oh, with a sore and aching heart. 

The lonely captive child 
Roamed through the palace, big and grand, 

And wept and never smiled. 
And all the heathen jeered at him 

And called him Christian dog, 
And when the king was angry 

He kicked him like a log, 
And spat upon his face, and said : 

"Now, by my beard, thy gods 
Are poor to leave their worshipers 

At such unequal odds." 





One day, just as the cruel king 
Had sat him down to dine, 

And in his jeweled cup of gold 
The page was pouring wine. 

The little fellow's heart ran o'er 
In tears he could not stay, 

For he remembered suddenly. 
It was the very day 




On which the yearly feast was kept 

Of good St. Nicholas, 
And at his home that very hour 

Were dancing on the grass, 
With music, and with feasting, all 

The children of the town. 
The king looked up, and saw his tears ; 

His face began to frown : 
"How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tears 

Are running in my cup ; 
'T was not with these, but with good wine, 

I bade thee fill it up. 
Why weeps the hound?" The child replied: 

"I weep, because to-day, 
In name of good St. Nicholas, 

All Christian children play; 
And all my kindred gather home, 

From greatest unto least, 
And keep to good St. Nicholas 

A merry banquet feast." 
The heathen king laughed scornfully : 

" If he be saint indeed, 
Thy famous great St. Nicholas, 

Why does he not take heed 
To thee to-day, and bear thee back 

To thy own native land ? 
Ha ! well I wot, he cannot take 

One slave from out my hand ! " 

Scarce left the boastful words his tongue 

When, with astonished eyes, 
The cruel king a giant form 

Saw swooping from the skies. 
A whirlwind shook the palace walls, 

The doors flew open wide, 
And lo ! the good St. Nicholas 

Came in with mighty stride. 
Right past the guards, as they were not, 

Close to the king's gold chair, 
With striding steps the good Saint came, 

And seizing by his hair 
The frightened little page, he bore 

Him, in a twinkling, high 
Above the palace topmost roof, 

And vanished in the sky. 

Now at that very hour was spread 

A banquet rich and dear, 
Within the little page's home, 

To which, from far and near, 
The page's mourning parents called 

All poor to come and pray 

With them, to good St. Nicholas, 

Upon his sacred day. 
Thinking, perhaps, that he would heal 

Their anguish and their pain, 
And at poor people's prayers might give 

Their child to them again. 

Now what a sight was there to see, 

When flying through the air, 
The Saint came carrying the boy, 

Still by his curly hair ! 
And set him on his mother's knee. 

Too frightened yet to stand, 
And holding still the king's gold cup 

Fast in his little hand. 
And what glad sounds were these to hear, 

What sobs and joyful cries. 
And calls for good St. Nicholas, 

To come back from the skies ! 
But swift he soared, and only smiled, 

And vanished in the blue ; 
Most likely he was hurrying 

Some other good to do. 
But I wonder if he did not stop 

To take a passing look 
Where still the cruel heathen king 

In terror crouched and shook ; 
While from the palace all his guards 

In coward haste had fled, 
And told the people in his chair 

The king was sitting dead. 

Hurrah for good St. Nicholas! 

The friend of all the poor, 
Who never sent a little child 

Unsuccored from his door. 
We do not pray to saints to-day, 

But still we hold them dear, 
And the stories of their holy lives 

Are stories good to hear. 
They are a sort of parable, 

And if we ponder well, 
We shall not find it hard to read 

The lesson which they tell. 
We do not pray to saints to-day, 

Yet who knows but they hear 
Our mention of them, and are glad 

We hold their memory dear? 
Hurrah for good St. Nicholas, 

The friend of all the poor, 
Who never sent a little child 

Unsuccored from his door ! 





By Noah Brooks. 

Chapter III. 


Iowa was not a thickly settled State in those 
days, and a journey across it was not so very differ- 
ent from the progress of a caravan across the conti- 
nent. But there were farm-houses along the road 
where the emigrants could procure milk, fresh 
vegetables, and bread. They had little money, 
and only bought such things as would help them 
economize their stock of provisions. By and by 
they would be out of the reach of all other sup- 
plies. Camping out was, at first, great fun. Their 
tent was new, fresh and clean. It was big enough 
for six people, and a man could stand upright in 
the middle where the ridge-pole sustained the roof. 

This roof was in the shape of the letter V turned 
upside down. About two feet from the bottom, 
the canvas came straight down and was fastened by 
wooden pins driven into the ground. The main 
body of the tent was kept up by ropes, secured 
at the lower edge of the roof and stretched out 
to large wooden pins driven into the ground two 
or three feet off. Then, guy ropes, extending 
from each end of the ridge-pole and made fast to 
other stakes, kept the whole structure steady when 
the wind blew. So the house of this migrating 
party was dry and strong enough for most occa- 
sions, and it was easily packed in a small space. 
When the tent was pitched at the end of a day's 
march, the two upright poles were held up, with 
the ridge-pole laid on top and secured at each end 
by an iron pin, which passed through a hole at 
each end of the pole. Two boys held this frail 
house -frame together while another threw the can- 
vas over it and fastened it in two or three places to 
keep it from tumbling over. Then all hands 
stretched out the ropes, pinned the cloth at the 
bottom, and, in a few minutes, the house was ready 
for the night. While traveling, the tent, with its 
ropes and pins, was stuffed into a stout sack. The 
door had no hinges, nor name-plate, nor door-bell ; 
it was a slit in the canvas and fastened with strings, 
instead of lock and key. Under shelter of this 
canvas mansion, the emigrants spread their blank- 
ets and buffalo-robes, and slept soundly and well. 

But the cooking was a dreadful burden. Barnard 
had taken some lessons in bread-making from his 
mother before starting, and he made the first batch 
of bread. No, it was not exactly bread, either. 

First, he carefully put some flour, salt and yeast 
powder into a pan and mixed them thoroughly with 
a big spoon, the others looking on with admira- 
tion. Then he poured in boiling water until he 
had a thick paste, which he stirred round and round 
as before. It was very 
sticky, but Barney bravely 
put his hands into it and 
attempted to mold che 
mass into biscuits. It 
would not be molded ; 
the tent suc ^ i, st i nate dough was 

never before seen. When poor Barney tried to 
pick it off from one hand it would stick to another. 
He rubbed in more flour to make it dryer, and 
then the lumps of dough all wasted away into 
"chicken feed," as Hiram satirically called it, and 
there was no consistence to it ; and when they 
added water to it the stuff became again just like 

" You want to pat the cakes round and round in 
your hands — so," said Arthur. "That's the way 
mother does." 

" Pat 'em yourself, if you know so much about 
it," said Barnard angrily; and he sat down in the 
grass, and tried to rub his bothered head with his 
elbows, his hands being helpless wads of dough. 
Arthur, rolling up his sleeves, dipped into the pan 
and succeeded in sticking his fingers together so 
fasf that each hand looked like a very big and very 
badly shaped duck's foot — web-fingered, in fact. 

" Hang the bread ! " he exclaimed ; and the rest 
of the family rolled over and over in the grass roar- 
ing at the comical figure he cut. He was daubed 
with dough up to the elbows and unable to use his 
hands ; a mosquito had lighted on his face, and, in- 
voluntarily slapping at him, Arthur had left a huge 
blotch of paste on his forehead, completely closing 
his left eye. Poor Arthur rested his helpless paws 
on the edge of the pan and said, " I give it up." 

" Oh, dump her into the baking-pan and let her 
flicker!" said Hiram, as soon as he could get his 
breath again. "We don't care for biscuits; its 
the bread we want. This is camping out, boys, 
you know." 

So the mass was tumbled into the baking-pan 
and put into the oven of their tidy little sheet-iron 
camp-stove. For a table they used a wide, short 
piece of pine board, which, laid across a couple of 
gold-pans turned bottom up, answered as well as 




"real mahogany," as Arthur said. On this occa- 
sion, however, the tin plates and cups, the smoking 
coffee-pot, and even the fried meat were on the 
board long before that obstinate bread showed 
signs of being baked. It would not rise up light 
"like mother's," and when a straw was run cau- 
tiously into it, the inside seemed as raw as ever. 
An hour's baking seemed to make no impression 
on it, and the boys finally supplied its place with 
dry crackers and supped as merrily as if they had 
not made their first great failure. 

They tried to throw away the provoking mess of 
dough that would not bake, but it stuck in the pan 
as obstinately as it had refused to be cooked. They 
scraped away at it with all sorts of tools, but the 
stuff, which now resembled a small bed of mortar, 
adhered to the pan with determination. 

" Did you grease that pan ? " demanded Arthur. 

" No, " said Barney, with a sudden flush. "Who 
ever heard of such a thing." 

There was another shout of laughter, for every- 
body at once recollected that the pan should have 
had flour, or some kind of grease, put in it to keep 
the dough from sticking. While they laughed, a 
farm-wagon, in which rode an old man and a young 
woman, came jogging along the road by which 
they were camped. The girl wore a faded red 
calico frock, which hung straight down from her 
waist to her bare brown feet. A huge gingham 
sun-bonnet with a cape protected her head and 

Arthur ran down to the edge of the road, and 
heard the old man say. " Them 's Californey emi- 
grants." It was the first time the boy had ever 
heard himself called an emigrant, and he did not 
like it. But suddenly remembering that he was 
one, he checked his rising glow of indignation and 
said, " Say, miss, will you tell us what's the mat- 
ter with this bread ? " 

The girl looked at her father, who looked at the 
queer group by the tent, then at Arthur's flushed 
and honest face, and said, " Go, Nance." So 
Nance, declining Arthur's proffered hand, leaped 
to the ground, and wading through the grass, went 
up and cast a critical glance at the objectionable 

" How d' ye make this yere ? " she asked, point- 
ing her elbow at the bread. Barnard described 
the process by which he had compounded this 
famous preparation of flour and other things. 

" What sort of water did ye put into it?" she 
next demanded. 

" Why, good spring water, of course ? " was the 

"Cold or hot?" 

" Oh, boiling hot, to be sure." 

The girl suddenly clasped her hands to her 

stomach, sat down in the grass and doubled her- 
self up like a jackknife. Then, sitting up again, 
she pushed back her sun-bonnet, and, as if ad- 
dressing herself to the camp-stove, she said : 

"My goodness, gracious me! if these ornery 
fellers have n't been and gone and scalded their 
flour! Oh, my ! oh, my! I 'm just fit to bust ! " 
And she doubled herself up again. 

" So we should not have scalded the bread, Miss 
Sunbonnet, should we ? " asked Barnard, who felt 
ridiculed and was somewhat nettled. 

" The girl wiped her eyes on her sleeve and said : 
" Bread ! It aint bread ; it 's flour paste." 

Good-naturedly recovering herself, Nance ex- 
plained that cold water or milk should be used in 
mixing the flour; and, adding some other general 
instructions, she strode off through the grass to the 
wagon. As she climbed up and rode away, the 
boys saw her double herself up once more, and 
they thought she said, " Scalded his flour, the 
ornery critter ! " 

Though this was a severe lesson in housekeep- 
ing, it was not the only one of their mortifying fail- 
ures. Even when they learned to make bread 
with cold water, it was not until they had spoiled 
much good flour that they were able to make bread 
which was even eatable. And it was not in Iowa 
that they succeeded well enough to satisfy them- 
selves. After they had crossed the Missouri, long 
after, and were well out in Nebraska, Arthur made 
the first bread of which the others proudly said 
that it was " good enough for anybody." 

Cooking beans was another perplexity. They 
baked them dry with a piece of pork, and when 
they were "done," they rolled out of the baking 
kettle like gravel stones, harder than when they 
went into it. Then, when they discovered that the 
beans should have been soaked and boiled, or par- 
boiled, before baking, they took two quarts and 
soaked and boiled them. The beans swelled and 
swelled until the big camp kettle ran over. They 
were put into other dishes, but would not stop 
swelling, and before those beans were ready to 
bake, every dish in camp was full and overflowing. 
A satirical wood-chopper, loafing up to their camp 
in the midst of the crisis, inquisitively asked : 

"Be you fellows peddlin' beans across to Cali- 
forney ? " 

But, notwithstanding all these drawbacks, the 
boys began to enjoy themselves very much. Some 
days it was hot and tedious tramping along in 
the dusty road, especially when they reflected that 
they were so far from the end of their journey. 
Even though days of travel were behind them, be- 
fore them the road stretched out for more than a 
thousand miles. They seemed to have been on 
the journey a good while, but they knew that 




months must pass before they could reach the end 
of it. 

"This is awful slow work," Barney would say, 
when they reckoned upon the day's progress. 
"Only twenty-one miles to-day, and a couple thou- 
sand, more or less, to get over." 

Hiram, however, a patient and plodding fellow, 
"allowed " that it took so many steps less for next 
day's tramp, because those of to-day had been 
taken, one by one. And Arthur used to look 
back at their camping-place when they had moved 
on for an hour or so, and blithely say : 

"Now I am two miles nearer California than I 
was this morning." 

"Two miles aint much, especially when a chap 
has got the dishes to wash at the end of every 
twenty miles," once said Tom. Washing dishes 
was a very disagreeable part of camp duty. It was 
a continual subject of contention. Nobody wanted 
to wash dishes. To be sure, the whole camp 
equipage did not amount to more than four or five 
tin plates and as many cups, and knives and forks. 
An active kitchen-maid would have disposed of the 
whole lot in a few minutes. But the boys were not 
kitchen-maids, and, what was more, th:y were de- 
termined that they would not appear as though 
they were. Hiram thought that as long as he was 
responsible for fire-wood and water, dish-washing 
should not be included in his duties. Barnard 
usually drove the team, and had general charge of 
that important branch of the service. Tom and 
Arthur attended to pitching the tent at night, un- 
loading the wagon of things needed during camp- 
ing time, and taking down the tent, packing up 
and collecting camp furniture in the morning pre- 
paratory to a start. All hands, with equal unsuc- 
cess, tried the cooking; and all hands, though 
ready to find fault with each other's cooking, de- 
clared that they would do anything but cook — un- 
less it was to wash dishes. 

" Perhaps you had bettter hire a girl to go along 
and wash dishes, Arty," said Barnard, reproach- 

" I don't care, Barney ; I did n't ship to wash 
dishes, and I wont; so there," was Arthur's invari- 
able reply, which Barnard as invariably met with 
" Who did ship to wash dishes? " 

Obviously nobody did. So the dishes went un- 
washed, sometimes for days together. One morn- 
ing, Hiram, taking up his plate, said: "I wonder 
what was in this plate last ? There 's bacon fat 
and corn-dodger crumbs, boiled rice, molasses, and 
I allow that that gray streak in that nor'-nor'-west 
corner is chicken. Tell yer what, boys, I don't 
allow that I 'm agoin' to drive horses, chop wood, 
or lug water for fellers that wont wash dishes for 
decency's sake. I 'm willin' to carry my share of 

the cookin', turn and turn about. You two boys 
ought to wash the dishes regular. I 'm the oldest 
feller in this yer camp, and if you, Tom and Ar- 
thur, don't find some way of doin' up those yer 
dishes between ye, before we git to the Bluffs, ye 
may as well make up yer minds to go back from 
there. " 

This was a long speech for Hiram, who always 
meant what he said. Barnard supported him in 
this decision ; and the younger boys, though feel- 
ing very much "put upon," agreed to take turns 
at playing house-maid. 

The first experiment was attended by a serious 
disaster. They drew lots for the first week's duty, 
and Arthur was "stuck," as he expressed it, for 
the service. Sitting somewhat morosely on the 
ground, one evening, at work on this unwelcome 
job of dish-washing, he turned the only crockery 
plate of the establishment about in his hands, 
scolding to himself. Tom, who was not a little 
elated that he was exempt from this service, at least 
for one week, stood by, and, aggravatingly pointing 
with his foot at the plate, said : 

" Be careful of that yer crockery, Arty, it's Hi's 
favorite dish. He '11 dress ye down if ye smash it." 

Arthur, with a gust of rage, cracked Tom over 
his toe with the plate, breaking it into pieces. 

" There, now ! I " 

But before Tom could say any further, Hiram, 
who had watched the whole proceeding, seized both 
boys by the collar and hustled them toward a creek 
which flowed near camp. 

"Where are you going with those boys?" 
shouted Barnard, amazed and laughing as he saw 
stout Hiram wrestling with the two squirming 

" I 'm going to drown 'em. like I would a pair of 
quarrelsome cats," said Hiram, manfully strug- 
gling with the youngsters. 

" No you don't, though," said Tom, dexterously 
twisting one of his legs in between Hiram's feet. 
The young man staggered a little, and, in his 
effort to save himself from falling into the creek, 
let both boys go loose. They stood a little way 
off, looking defiantly at each other and at Hiram. 

"Your family government does not seem to 
work well," said Barnard. " I guess we '11 have to 
send the boys back from Council Bluffs. They 
never '11 go through this way." 

Arthur, who still held in his hand a bit of the 
plate that had been the innocent cause of this out- 
burst, said : 

" Well, Tom pestered me ; but I 'm willing to 
try it again. Give us a fair trial, Barney." 

Tom was sulky, but admitted that he should not 
have provoked Arthur. 

" Tom, I '11 tell ye what I '11 do with you," said 

7 6 



away yer 

If ye don't behave yerself, I '11 take 
revolver and put ye on the first boat 
bound down, after we get to the Bluffs." 

"That will be binding him over to keep the 
peace," said Barnard. 

"No," added Arthur, opening his hand and 
showing, with a blush, the fragment of Hiram's 
pet plate, " I 'm going to keep the piece." 
And he did. 

Chapter IV. 


A citv of tents covered the flat banks of the 
Missouri, below Council Bluffs, when our party 

cooking in the open air, repairing their tents or 
clothes, trading off some part of their outfit, or 
otherwise making ready for the final start across 
the plains. 

Looking across the flat bottom land, one could 
barely catch a glimpse of the Big Muddy, as the 
people called the Missouri River. A fringe of 
low trees showed where the stream flowed by ; and 
occasionally a huge three-story steamboat went 
gliding down in the distance, looking exactly as if 
it were moving through the meadows. Beyond, 
the western side of the river was somewhat bluffy 
and broken. A few wooden shanties were grouped 
about the ferry landing, — a huge scow being the 
means of transit. On one eminence stood a 


reached the river. In those days, Council Bluffs 
was a scattered and rough-looking town, about 
four miles from the Missouri River; and, where its 
edges were frayed out toward the south, was a 
long level strip of land, extending to the broad 
sweep of the stream. Westward, this plain was 
dotted with thousands of cattle, belonging to emi- 
grants ; and in that part of it which was nearest the 
town were the carts and wagons of those whose 
faces were now turned toward California. It was 
a novel sight. Here were men mending wagons, 

weather-beaten structure, partially boarded over. 
This was designed to be the capital when the 
country should be erected into the Territory of 
Nebraska. The groups of shanties scattered about 
over the hills had no name. Omaha has since 
arisen on that site. Then, however, the whole 
country was one of great expectations. 

With eyes wide open, scanning the curious sight 
on every side, the boys drove their team down the 
river road, in search of a good camping-place. 
Their experience in traveling through Iowa had 




taught them that they must find a dry, smooth spot 
for their tent, water for the camp, and grass for 
the horses. On the edge of this strange city of 
tents they found all of these, and there they en- 

But they were not allowed to do this unnoticed. 
Although people were continually going and com- 
ing, there were enough idle fellows to watch the 
new-comers and make remarks upon them, — 
"Here's more candidates for California fortunes." 
"Going to the Pacific with that raw-boned hoss?" 
"Oh, get out of that wagon and walk to the dig- 
gings." 'What are you going to do with that 
gold-pan ? " " Say, sonny, does yer mammy know 
you're out?" These were some of the rude salu- 
tations which greeted the party as they drove stur- 
dily down through the city of tents. 

Arthur's eyes snapped a little, and his cheeks 
burned; but Hiram, perched in the wagon, flung 
back the rude observations with cheerful readiness. 
One kindly-faced man, who walked along beside 
the boys, said : 

" You must n't mind these chaps; they're rough, 
but good-natured ; and if you should happen to 
get into difficulty, they would help you readily 

Their new acquaintance showed them where par- 
ties from various parts of the Western States were 
encamped ; and they pitched their tent near that 
of some men from Hancock County, Illinois, and 
soon made themselves at home. 

They felt that they had reached "thejumping- 
off place." 

Beyond, across the river, was nothing but that 
vast unbroken stretch of country which used to 
be laid down in the school maps as "Unexplored 
Regions." Even now it was unexplored except by 
a few people who had gone over to Oregon, Utah, 
or California. Contradictory reports about the 
value of the gold diggings were coming into this 
canvas city of emigrants. The very day that they 
arrived, there ran a rumor through the camp that 
two men had just come in from California with 
very discouraging news. It was said that they had 
come through in twenty-eight days, riding their 
mules all the way ; had had narrow escapes from 
Indians, and were so far back on their way to " the 
States," as everybody called the country east of 
the Missouri. 

After the boys had settled their camp for the 
night, they went out and hunted up these bearers 
of ill tidings. Pressing into a little knot of men 
near the camp of some New Englanders, who had 
fitted out at Council Bluffs, they saw a rough- 
bearded, ragged and seedy-looking man, sitting on 
a wagon-tongue. He was smoking a short pipe 
with great enjoyment, and he occasionally dropped 

a word by way of answer to the questions that were 
showered upon him. 

" Gold ! no ! " he replied, with great scorn, 
" thar 's no gold in the hull country. How do I 
know ? Why, I was thar a week ; that 's how I 

"Where were you?" asked one of the by- 

" I was on the Yuba, jest whar it jines into the 
American. That 's whar I war." 

" But I did n't know the Yuba emptied into the 
American; the Yuba is further north," said Barn- 
ard, impulsively, and before he thought. 

" B'en thar?" growled the returned Californian. 

" No," said Barnard, with a blush. 

" Wal, I have, you bet yer," rejoined the other. 
"And its no use o' yer talkin', men; I have mined 
it more nor a week in them diggins ; never got so 
much as a color." 

" Did you hear of anybody who did find gold ? " 
somebody asked. 

" Here and thar war a man who said as how he 
had seed some other feller as had seed another who 
had heerd tell on some other chap as had found 
somethin' that looked like gold. I don't put no 
trust into any on 'em." 

" You look as if you 'd had a hard time," said a 
sympathizing visitor. 

" Misery in my bones ; wust way ; I aint been 
so powerful bad in my life afore. Fever 'n ager 
wuss than in Arkansaw. You bet yer." 

" Why did n't you keep on down the Yuba, pros- 
pecting ? " • 

"Keep on!" replied the veteran, with infinite 
scorn. "We war nigh out of grub. No gold in 
sight. We 'd rastled with our luck long enough, 
me and my pard. So we jist lighted out 'n that 
'tween two days. Powerful glad we are to be yar, 
too, you bet yer. " 

"You look it," said one of the emigrants, who 
seemed to regard this dampening report as a sort 
of personal injury. 

Younkins, for this was the name of the returned 
prospector, told the same story all through the 
camps. No gold in California, but much sickness; 
cholera, fever and ague, and plenty of men glad to 
get away, if they could only find the means to travel 
with. Some of the emigrants did not believe these 
reports. Some said: "Oh, these chaps are dis- 
couraging emigration to the diggings. They want 
it all themselves. They can't fool us that way." 
But others were downright discouraged. 

A day or two after, four men crossed the river 
from the Nebraska side, driving an ox-team with a 
shabby wagon. They had gone as far west as Fort 
Laramie, where they heard bad news and had 
turned back. The boys sought out this party, and 

7 8 



heard their story. They had lost a comrade, who 
had died on the way to Laramie. They were 
gloomy, down-hearted and out of spirits. They 
met people coming back. Some had been through 
to California ; or they said they had. Others had 
turned their faces homeward after hearing the re- 
ports of others. 

This bad news had its effect in the camps. "The 
mines have given out," was the cry around many 
of the camp-fires ; and not a few wagons were 
packed up for home, or sold out at auction, and the 
disheartened owners returned to "the States," out 
of pocket as well as out of luck. In a few days out- 
fits were to be had for low prices. The weekly 
newspaper at Council Bluffs vainly tried to keep up 
the excitement. Reports from California were dis- 
couraging. If there ever had been any gold there, 
it was exhausted. It was useless to say that there 
never was any of the precious stuff found in the 
mines. Many of the emigrants had seen some that 
had been brought to their own homes. Arthur 
and Barney had touched and handled Gates' golden 
ore. But the mines had given out, and that was 
the end of the matter. 

" I don't believe any such yarn," said Barnard, 
stoutly. "I don't want to influence the rest of 
you, boys ; but I 'm going through. For one, I 
shall not turn back." 

" Nor I ! " said Arthur, with a burst of enthu- 

" Nor I," added Tom. 

" It's Californy or bust, with me," said Hiram, 
sententiously. • 

So they were agreed. 

But things looked rather blue at times ; and 
when those who had turned back drove slowly up 
the road and disappeared among the bluffs, Arthur 
looked after them with some misgivings, and with 
a touch of homesickness in his heart. Then he 
turned his eyes westward where the sun dipped be- 
low the western hills. As at one glance, he saw 
the long trail stretching over the unknown land. 
It was a mysterious and untried way. The boy 
hesitated only for a moment, and, stretching out 
his arms toward the setting sun, said to himself, 
" I 'm bound to go through ! " 

After all, however, there were very few who 
turned back, compared with the number remaining 
at the Bluffs ; and every steamboat that came up 
the river brought fresh recruits from the towns and 
cities below. These people had only part of their 
outfit with them ; some of them bought out the 
entire equipment of those who were returning, and 
so stepped at once into possession of all that was 
needed to take them through. In a few days, the 
city of tents grew a great deal ; and, on the west- 
ern side of the river, where the bottom land 

spread out, as on the Iowa side, there was a con- 
siderable encampment. These, like the camps 
across the river, were changing all the while. 
Every day a train of wagons would roll out over 
the hills, bound at last for California ; and new 
additions were immediately made. This was the 
place where emigrants to California found what 
was yet to be added to their equipment. Supplies 
were plenty, % and sold at reasonable prices. Peo- 
ple who, like our boys, had traveled across the 
country by team, had consumed some of their pro- 
visions before reaching the Bluffs ; and their brief 
experience in camping out and traveling showed 
them where their outfits were imperfect. Many 
parties came up the river on steamers, and here 
bought a great portion of their stores. Council 
Bluffs was a busy place ; everybody had something 
to sell ; and the citizens of that thriving town 
strolled among the canvas tents of the emigrants 
with calm satisfaction. 

There was much hunting to and fro for people 
who had come across the country, by their com- 
rades who had followed after by the speedier tran- 
sit of railroad and steamboat. Some of these 
parties were never made up again. It often hap- 
pened that those who arrived first grew tired of 
waiting for those who were to come after. Although 
there was much delay at the Bluffs, everybody was 
feverish and excited. If they were going on to the 
land of gold, they were in a hurry to start. If they 
had decided to return, they had no time to waste at 
the river. So little companies broke up, some 
going on and some turning back. Friends, neigh- 
bors and families were thus dispersed, never to 
meet again ; and, wandering around from camp 
to camp, were those who expected to find their 
comrades, but who too often learned that they had 
gone on before. Some of these belated ones were 
disheartened, and went no farther ; but most of 
them joined themselves to other parties, and so 
pushed on to California. 

Our boys began to think that their two-horse 
team was hardly heavy enough to draw their wagon 
across the continent. They saw that most people 
had at least two spare hordes ; and more oxen 
than horses were used by the emigrants whom they 
had met. ' 

" Oxen is the things, I allow, after all, boys," 
said Hiram, who had studied the subject carefully 
while coming through Iowa. "Just suppose one 
of these horses should up and die ; where 'd ye 
be then ? We 'd have to haul through with one 

"But suppose we were chased by Indians," 
remonstrated Arthur. "We couldn't get away 
with oxen, could we? " 

"Indians! pshaw!" said Hiram; "there aint 

i8 7 5-j 



no Indians, so far as heerd from. And if there 
was, hosses won't save us, you may bet on that." 

" We might trade off our horses for oxen," said 
Barnard, " but we couldn't expect to get two yoke 
of oxen for a pair of horses ; and unless we had 
two yoke \ye should be no better off than we are 

"Cattle are cheap," explained Hiram. "We 
can buy a yoke fer fifty or sixty dollars. Old Jim 's 
worth that much money, and my Jenny could sell 
fer more 'n the cost of another yoke. The farmers 
'round here are bringin' in their cattle." 

" Golly ! how it rains," broke in Tom, who had 
been trying to keep the beating current out of the 
tent. The water flowed in under the edge of the 
canvas from the sloping ground in the rear. Arthur 
jumped up in consternation. He had been sitting 
in a little pool of water. 

" All hands out to dig trenches ! " shouted Bar- 
nard. The night was pitch dark, and the boys 
seized their lantern, shovels and ax, and sallied out 
to dig a narrow ditch about the tent. The water 
poured into this, and so was carried off on each 
side, and their canvas-house stood on a little island 
of its own. But the rain fell in torrents, and the 
tent flapped wildly in the wind. 

"Tell you what, fellers," said Hiram, shaking 
the water from him, as they crouched inside again, 
" this aint what it 's cracked up to be. Camping 
in a rain storm aint great fun ; hey, Arty ? " 

Arthur was just going to say that they might be 
worse off before they got across the plains, when a 
pair of very thin hands were thrust in at the open- 
ing of the tent, now tied together for the night, 
and a thin voice said-: " Please may I come in ? " 

" Sartin, sartin," said Hiram heartily. "Walk 
in and make yourself to hum, whoever you be." 

Arthur unfastened the tent-curtain, and a boyish 
figure, slender and woe-begone, struggled into the 

The stranger might have been about thirteen 
years old. He looked as if he had lived about forty 
years. He wore a pair of trousers made of striped 
jean, resembling bed-ticking ; and his jacket of 
linsey-woolsey homespun, and dyed with butternut 
juice, was much too short at the wrists. His face 
was pale, but sweet and pleasant, and he had mild 
blue eyes. Under his arm he carried a large bun- 
dle. He wore a very seedy coon-skin cap, wet and 
dripping with the rain. He put his bundle care- 
fully on the ground, and tied the tent together 
again; then, turning about, he surveyed the little 
party in the tent with mild inquiry, but without a 

"What mought yer name be?" asked Hiram, 
when nobody else had broken silence. 


Hiram paused. He knew that the boy's name 
was not, after all, of much consequence to any- 
body ; but to ask for it was one way to begin a 
conversation. And he had not got far. "Johnny" 
was rather vague. 

" Johnny what? " spoke up Tom. 

" That 's all. Only just Johnny," was the reply. 

"Oh, don't bother the boy about his name," 
broke in Barnard. " Where are your folks? Are 
you going to California ? " 

"Yes, I'm going to California; and I don't 
know where my folks are. Perhaps you 've seen 
'em, sir. There 's a tall one with red hair, and a 
short one with a harelip, and another one with a 
game leg. Oh, sir, have n't you seen 'em no- 
where ? " and the poor boy's eyes filled with tears 
as he spoke. 

"A game leg?" repeated Hiram. "Boys, don't 
you remember that thar mean skunk as stole Josh 
Davis's ox-chain over on the west side of the river ? 
He mought have been the chap. Did he wear a 
red shirt, with a blue handkerchcr around his 
waist ? " he asked of Johnny. 

"Yes," said the boy; "and his name was 
Bunce, — Bill Bunce, — and we are from Vermillion 
County, Illinois." 

" I allow he and his partners have gone on 
ahead," said Hiram. 

" I was over on the Omaha side when they drove 
out," added Tom; "and they had a big yaller 
dog named Pete with them. Golly ! but that dog 
was a master-hand to hunt chipmunks ! How he 
would " 

"Oh, you talk too much with your mouth," 
interrupted Hiram, impatiently. Johnny showed 
signs of breaking into tears. He sat down and 
told his story. He had lived in Vermillion County 
with a man who was called a doctor, he said. 
Evidently he had been hardly used, and had never 
known father or mother. A drudge in a country 
doctor's house, he had been kept in ignorance of 
the world outside, of his own friends, and of his 
family. He had never even been told his own 
name. How did he get here? That was simple 
enough. Three or four of the doctor's neigh- 
bors were going to California. They offered, or 
pretended to offer, to take the boy along. He 
was too glad to get away from the brutal and 
quick-tempered doctor, to wait for a second hint. 
They had journeyed on together to Ouincy, on the 
Mississippi, where the men left Johnny to follow 
them by steamer, while they went " another way," 
as they said. They promised to write to him when 
to start for Council Bluffs. He waited several 
weeks at the miserable little boarding-house where 
they had lodged him. Alarmed at the long delay, 
he had started off by himself, and here he was. 




" Probably their letters miscarried," said Arthur, 
with sympathy in his eyes. 

" More likely they never wrote," added his wiser 

The youngster looked distressed, but spoke up 
cheerfully : 

" Perhaps they have n't gone. They said they 
would wait here for me." 

But Hiram was sure about " the man with the 
game leg " ; he was not positive as to the others. 
Both Arthur and Tom remembered the lame man 
with the big yellow dog, especially the dog ; but 
nobody was sure whether the tall man with him 
had red hair or not. 

"Well, you can bunk down with us to-night," 
said Hiram, " and in the morning we '11 take a hunt 
through the camps, and if your chaps have n't 
lighted out, we '11 find 'em." 

The next morning broke fair and bright. The 
rain had ceased during the night, and great drops 
were shining on the grass and on the bushes that 
bordered the plain. With a great bound of exhil- 
aration, Arthur sprang from his damp blankets and 
began to make ready for breakfast. Johnny crept 
out into the sunshine, and, having followed Arthur's 
example by taking a wash from the tin wash-hand 
basin which was produced from the wagon, he sat 
watching the preparations about the camp-stove. 

" May I stay to breakfast with you? " he asked. 
" I 've got money enough to pay for it." 

" I don't know," said Arthur, doubtfully. "You 
will have to ask Barney. Well, yes, you shall 
stop too," he added, as he saw the boy's face fall. 
" You shall have my breakfast, anyhow." 

"But I can pay for it. I've got some money 
sewed into my jacket." 

" How much ? " demanded Tom, who was split- 
ting up a fence-rail for fire-wood. 

"Eighty dollars," said Johnny, simply. 

' ' Jerusalem crickets ! " exclaimed Tom. ' ' Where 
did you get so much ? " 

"Dr. Jenness gave it to me before I left. He 
said it was mine, and that he had been keeping it 
for me. " 

Before any more talk could be made, a bright- 
faced, handsome young fellow, with a cityfied and 
jaunty air, walked up to the group, and asked, 
" Can you tell me where I can find the Lee County 
boys, as they call them ? " 

" That 's us," said Tom, with a good-natured 

" Well, I 'm in luck ; and where 's the captain ? " 

Barnard, who had come out of the tent with an 
armful of bedding, said: "We have no captain. 
What 's your will ? " 

"I hear you want a yoke of cattle. I have a 
yoke which I should like to turn in as part of my 
outfit, if you will take another partner. I'm going 

Barnard eyed him suspiciously, and said, " Where 
from ? " 

" Well, I 'm from Boston last ; born in Vermont, 
though ; have been in the dry-goods trade ; got 
tired of selling goods over the counter. I 'm going 

The boys looked curiously on the Boston dry- 
goods salesman, who had come all the way to 
Council Bluffs to find a chance to go to California. 
He said his party had broken up and gone back. 

" We 'II think it over," said Barnard. 

" All right," said the Boston man. " My name 
is Montague Morse." 

(To be continued.) 


Pity the bells in the steeple, 
Calling afar to the people : 

"Good-night — ding, dong — good night!" 
While close to your bed, as they 're ringing, 
Your own loving mother is singing : 

"Good-night, dear one, good-night!" 





By Major Traverse. 

ONCE an American lad)' in Baalbec, in Syria, saw 
a native at work on one of the mud-built houses, 
for though the ancient city of Baalbec was so splen- 
did that it was called " the City of the Sun," the 
modern town is built mainly of mud. The lady- 
asked the native why he did not build grand tem- 
ples and splendid columns, like those in ruins. 
The man shook his head, and replied that such 
work could not be done 
by men. ■, . j .- . -' ., 

" Why not ?" asked the 
lady. " Those temples 
were built by men." 

"Oh, no," said the Sy- 
rian ; "by the genii." 

" The genii ! " exclaim- 
ed the lady, laughing. 
" Why, are the genii idle 
now ? " 

"They have gone," re- 
plied the Syrian, serious- 
ly. " They have gone 
toward the setting sun, 
where they build greater 
houses than these, bridge 
streams, bore through 
mountains, run through 
water and fly over the 
land, carrying people as 
swift as the wind, and let- 
ters as quick as light- 

The lady smiled at the 
singular idea of the poor 
native, though there was 
much more to reflect upon 
than to laugh at in what 
he had said. 

One of the great, good 
genii of this age is certainly the Civil Engineer. 
I often wonder if the children who cease work or 
play to watch a passing railway-train, ever think of 
the great changes which have been brought about 
by the building of railways. 

George Stephenson, who is now justly called the 
"father of railways," was the child of poor parents 
in England. . Unable to send him to school, they 
employed him at home as a nurse for the younger 
children until he was eight years old. His chief 
duty as nurse was to keep his little brothers and 
sisters from under the hoofs of the horses which 
Vol. III. — 6. 

drew the coal-cars on the " tram-way" — a wooden 
railroad leading from a coal-mine, which ran near 
his father's door. At this early age, while watch- 
ing the coal-trains passing, he conceived the idea 
that iron would make better rails than wood, and 
that if he could put upon wheels the steam-engine 
which his father tended as fireman at the coal-pit, 
it could be made to draw as heavv a train of coal- 


cars as could be moved by a great team of fifty 

The idea did not pass away from the brain of 
George Stephenson when he was removed from his 
home at nine years of age, and hired out, at four 
cents a day, to tend the cows of a neighboring 
farmer. He had enough of leisure while watching 
the herd in the field to think over the subject. He 
even built him an engine of clay, with hemlock 
branches for steam pipes. I suspect that, like Little 
Boy Blue, he sometimes let the cows stray into for- 
bidden meadows while he sat thinking about en- 




gines on wheels and roads of iron. He could not 
study about them in books for two very good rea- 
sons. In the first place, no books about railroads 
and locomotives had been printed, since neither 
had been built. The other reason was that George 
Stephenson could n't read at all. He did not know 
' his alphabet until he was nineteen years old. 

Little George, or " Geordy," as the common 
people nicknamed him, was next employed to 
drive the horse which turned the winding machine, 
or " gin," as the colliers called it, at the coal-pit 

He made the first locomotive with smooth driving- 
wheels. It had been thought necessary by some 
engineers to construct locomotives with cogged 
driving-wheels, and a corresponding rack on the 
rail, to prevent the wheels from slipping. But 
Stephenson successfully set aside all these con- 
trivances. He was nearly fifty years old before 
he found men willing to risk their money in con- 
structing an iron railroad to test his locomotive. 
When, at length, the first railroad was completed, 
between Stockton and Darlington (two English 


where his father worked. He then began to think 
of a plan for making the steam do the work of the 
horse, and one day astonished the colliers by build- 
ing on a bench, in front of his father's cottage, a 
model in clay of an engine which turned the " gin " 
and lifted the coal. He was at this time so young 
and small that his father made him hide when the 
owner of the coal-mine went "the rounds" to pay 
his hands, for fear he should think him too small 
to receive sixteen cents a day wages ! 

It was not until he was nineteen years old, and 
was set to watch an engine, that he found time to 
attend school and learn to read and write. He 
worked steadily at his old idea for twenty-five years. 

towns only twelve miles apart), the procession with 
which the day was celebrated was headed by a man 
on horseback, to keep the road clear for Stephen- 
son's locomotive and car, and ladies and gentlemen 
on horseback and in carriages kept pace with the 
train by riding by the side of the track. But after 
the procession had proceeded a short distance, 
Stephenson, who was running his own engine, im- 
patiently called to the horseman to get out of the 
way, and, putting steam on, he ran his locomotive 
the rest of the distance at the terrible pace of twelve 
miles an hour ! 

Stephenson had been called a lunatic when he 
had said that his locomotive could run twelve miles i 

i8 7S .] 



an hour. One very distinguished officer of the 
English Government, whose duty it was to see 
that the mails were carried as rapidly as possible, 
laughed at the idea, and said that " if ever a loco- 
motive ran ten miles an hour with a mail-bag 
behind it, he would eat a stewed engine-wheel for 
his breakfast." 

There was some little excuse for this disbelief, for 
the first locomotive was a very clumsy machine. It 
was called the " Locomotion." Stephenson, when 
he built it, was the only man besides his son Robert 
who believed it would go at all ; and some of the 
learned members of the English Parliament de- 
clared that it could not run against a strong wind ! 
It was a small, clumsy affair, weighing not more 
than one-fifth as much as an engine of the present 

The first improvement on it — the "Rocket" — 
was even more ridiculous in appearance ; but it 
was found to be faster and stronger. Before it was 
accepted by the railroad company, it was put in 
a race with three other engines manufactured by 
other engineers ; and of the judges and thousands 
of persons who witnessed the race, " nine-tenths 
were against the ' Rocket,' because of its appear- 
ance." But Stephenson received the prize over the 
other competitors, one of whom was Captain John 
Ericsson. His locomotive could run fifteen miles 
an hour, and once actually drew thirteen tons at a 
speed of twenty-nine miles an hour. That perform- 
ance decided the fate of locomotives, and engineers 
at once went to work to improve the new motive 

The first railroad passenger-car was simply an 
old box on wheels, with seats running along the 
sides, a door at the rear end, and a seat in front for 
the driver, like the box of an omnibus. It was 
called by Stephenson, who invented it. the ''Ex- 
periment," because it was not generally believed 
that people would travel on the railway. In 1825, 
about the time the first line was finished, one of 
the principal papers of England said that nothing 
could be "more ridiculous than the prospect of loco- 
motives traveling twice as fast as stage-coaches ! " 
And it added that people would as soon "suffer 
themselves to be fired off upon one of Congreve's 
rockets as trust themselves to the mercy of such a 
machine going at such a rate." Stephenson, how- 
ever, firm in his belief that passengers would travel 
by rail, declared that the time would come, and he 
hoped to live to see it, when it would be cheaper 
for a poor man to ride than to walk. This prophecy 
threatens to be more than fulfilled in a few years. 
It is proposed in England to send passengers by 
rail at ordinary English letter-rates, and under a 
system of tickets like postage-stamps — a six-cent 
stamp entitling the holder to go by any route to 

any part of Great Britain. But George Stephenson 
was not believed then, and the people continued 
to call him " Daft Geordy," which means "Crazy 
George." It was not long after the Stockton and 
Darlington road was opened that more passenger- 
cars were needed. The first improvement on the 
" Experiment" was a double car, made out of two 
" mourning-coaches." This car was lighted at 
night by a single candle. 

Of course the owners and drivers of the stage- 
coaches and road-wagons bitterly opposed the 
building of the railway. They claimed that stage- 
coaches were not only safer but swifter than the 
cars, and often tried to prove it by racing. One 
day a race came off between Stephenson's loco- 
motive, drawing a passenger-train, and one of the 
old stage-coaches which ran between Stockton and 
Darlington. They ran for a distance of twelve 
miles, and the locomotive beat the stage-coach by 
about one hundred yards. After this the pro- 
prietors of the stage-coaches were ruined, and their 
coaches were sold to the railroad company, who 
put new wheels on the old bodies and made rail- 
way passenger-cars of them. The English railway- 
cars are still much like several stage-coaches com- 
bined in a long carriage, each being a separate 
room of itself. These cars, as well as those in use 
in America, are very elegantly furnished. When 
the first passenger-cars were placed on the Stock- 
ton and Darlington road, the travelers bought their 
seats, and their names were entered on the pas- 
sengers' list. But instead of there being " nobody 
to travel behind a locomotive," everybody wanted 
to ride in that way, and it was soon found that no 
list of passengers could be kept ; thus tickets came 
into use. 

In these very early days of railway travel the 
passenger-cars were like the old stage-coaches in 
another respect, — a trumpeter accompanied each 
train and blew his bugle until the cars were out of 
the depot and through the town. It was not until 
the bell and steam-whistle came into use that the 
trumpeter and his horn were abolished. 

It is only about fifty years since this first loco- 
motive puffed along the first railway, dragging this 
first clumsy passenger-car. During each of those 
fifty years more than two thousand miles of rails 
have been laid, and in England and the United 
States every day of those fifty years has seen the 
completion of one locomotive and two passenger- 
cars. Immense workshops are kept busy build- 
ing locomotives and cars. They are generally 
near the principal depots of the great railway lines, 
and I know of no more interesting place where one 
can spend a part of his day in the depot. Each 
and every part of a locomotive must be made with 
the greatest precision and delicacy, and great 

8 4 



machines are employed for hammering and cutting 
and punching and planing the iron into shape. 
You will find in these railway works, as the English 
say, or "locomotive works," as they are called in 
America, immense machines, possessing almost re- 
sistless power, yet driving only a little steel-pointed 
instrument like a chisel not bigger than one's little 
finger. It seems almost a waste of power to use 
such a giant to drive so slight a tool. But this 
delicate chisel digs its way little by little through 
the hardest of cold iron or steel, and planes it as 
smooth as ever the carpenter's plane trims wood, 
and it produces, too, shavings of iron as delicate as 


those of soft pine. Little shears, hardly bigger than 
a tailor's, cut through iron as easily as through 
paper ; and delicate steel punches drive their way 
through iron plates. In most of these works you 
will see also the Nasmyth steam-hammer, a mighty 
giant in power, but as docile as a lamb under the 
touch of a master hand. It is an immense shaft of 
iron, sliding up and down in a great wooden frame, 
and regulated in its movements so that it can strike 
a hard or soft, a quick or slow blow, as the engineer 
who directs it may wish. A heated shaft of iron a 
foot thick can be crushed, or a tack may be driven, 
by its blows. About twenty years ago, the Prime 
Minister of England, Lord John Russell, visiting 
the railway works at Manchester, was invited to 
eat a boiled egg for luncheon. Before giving him 

the egg, the master of the works put it in a small 
wine-glass and placed both under the great steam- 
hammer. The engineer set the giant at work ; 
down rushed the shaft with the rapidity of a light- 
ning flash and struck the egg, but so perfectly was 
the hammer regulated that the blow merely chipped 
the shell, crushing neither glass nor egg. 

Among the first results of the success of the rail- 
way was the stop which was put to the digging of 
canals. Tens of thousands of men had been em- 
ployed in Great Britain in canal-digging ; they 
were known as " navigators," but called " navvies"' 
for short. These, thinking their work would be 
gone if railroads succeeded, made great efforts to 
oppose them. But it was soon found that the dig- 
ging of deep railway cuts, the building of great 
bridges, and the boring of long tunnels, gave 
employment to more men than canal digging, 
and the navvies at once became railway builders. 
One-half of the great Pacific Railway — the Missis- 
sippi side — was built by Irish navvies ; the other 
half — on the Pacific side of the Rocky Mountains 
— was mainly the work of Chinamen, who were 
brought over from China by the ship-load to work 
on the railroad, although they had never seen one 
in their lives. The English navvies were a curious 
class twenty-five or thirty years ago. They went 
about from road to road in gangs of ten or twelve, 
with a headman or captain, who made bargains or 
contracts, and under whose direction they worked. 
They generally built at each point where they 
found employment a mud house, roofed with tufts 
of grass, in which the whole gang ate and slept, 
doing hard work and living hard lives. When a 
lazy fellow attached himself to the gang and shirked 
work, the others beat and cast him out, refusing 
him a share of the profits of the work. Along rail- 
roads nowadays the workmen build entire villages 
of log or slab huts, which they leave standing when 
they go away. Those who lay the track live in cars 
fitted up for sleeping and cooking, and called 
"caboose" or "construction trains." When the 
Pacific Railway was being built, the twenty thou- 
sand workmen on the Plains removed their villages 
from place to place every week ; for on that road a 
rail was laid every fifteen seconds, and over a mile 
of track was completed during every hour of track- 

There were workmen on the Pacific Railway even 
more curious than the Irish or Chinese navvies. 
During the Summer of 1868, the Laramie River 
became very low, much to the distress of a con- 
tractor who had cut a great many thousand cross- 
ties — the timbers on which the rails are laid — and 
which he expected to float down to the point where 
the railroad was to cross. He was at first at a loss 
to know what to do, but resolved, finally, to build 

t8 7 S-1 



dams across the river at various points, and, when 
the stream was thus made high enough, set his 
rafts- afloat. Large parties of men, therefore, went 
to work building the dams. No sooner would the 
men leave off work at night, than thousands of 
beavers would begin, and work hard at the dam 
during the whole night. 

Water is always as necessary to the comfort of 
beavers as on this occasion it was to the welfare of 
the contractor; and it was probably for this reason, 
and not because they wished to see the railroad 
finished, that the beaver community joined in the 
labor of building the dams. 

Near every large depot at the end of a line of 
railway, but not at the small stations along the 
route, you will find a curious workshop, different 
from the " locomotive works," and hardly less in- 
teresting. It is always circular or semicircular in 
shape, and for this reason is called the " round- 
house." In the early days of railroads, the repair- 
shop — which the round-house really and simply 
is — was called "the hospital." It is not a name 
without meaning, for to the round-house, as to an 
hospital, the " iron horses " who may have been 
worn out in service, with broken limbs or wheezy 
lungs, are sent to be " doctored," as the engineers 
say — or " repaired," as we would call it. In the 
center of the round-house is always a movable 
table, large and strong enough to hold the biggest 
and heaviest locomotive. It is called a turn-table. 
Across its diameter run two rails ; and from its 
outer edge or circumference run other rails to all 
parts of the round-house, spreading from the table 
like the spokes of a wheel from its hub. The dis- 
abled locomotives are run into this hospital, and 
upon the turn-table, which is then turned until the 
locomotive can be run upon the side-tracks, to be 
taken to pieces, repaired, painted and polished up, 
then to come forth renewed for the race again. 

A train of cars is in some respects like a ship. 
The engineer or driver of the engine is the pilot, 
the brakemen are the crew, and the conductor is 
"the captain of the craft. But these are not all the 
persons necessary to the work. Of equal impor- 
tance to the safe running of every train are the 
guides — the signal-men and switch-tenders. These 
are not only among the most important, but the 
most interesting of the sen-ants of the locomotive. 
On all well-regulated railways the signal-men and 
switch-tenders are stationed at every depot, switch, 
crossing, bridge and tunnel ; and on all roads in 
Europe, and on several in this country, guards are 
stationed at every mile-post. There are patrols 
who pass over the road — each taking a mile of it 
as his beat — just before a train is to pass, and 
examine every foot of the track, looking for loose 
bolts and broken rails, and removing little stones 

from the track. These patrols and the signal and 
switch men are armed during the day-time with 
flags, which they wave as a direction to the engi- 
neer of the train. At night they use colored lamps, 
which can be seen for many hundreds of yards ; 
and great calcium lights, which are visible for many 

It is not at the ends of a great railroad that the 
switch-tenders and signal-men are to be seen in 
their greatest activity, but at some point where 
several tracks cross each other. At Newark, New 
Jersey, near the city of New York, two great lines 
of railway cross, each having a double track. Trains 
on these roads are so numerous that they pass each 
other at this place every ten minutes in the day 
and night. You would naturally suppose that the 
switch-men were kept very busy ; they are con- 
stantly at their posts and on the look-out, but the 
labor, though responsible, is not hard. A single 
signal-man in a small station-house directs the 
trains, regulating their coming and going, and their 
speed, with his flag, which is moved by machinery. 

At the Clapham Junction, near London, 700 
trains pass daily, — that is one every two minutes 
and a-half. — so rapidly, indeed, that it looks to a 
stranger as if one continuous train was passing, and 
then flying off in different directions. Yet it is all 
done, day after day, without noise or confusion to 
these signal and switch men, who control the move- 
ments of the trains. Here one signal-man directs 
the whole (there is a small army of switch-tenders), 
and he does it by an instrument called a signal- 
box, on which he plays as on a great piano. 

The signal-box used in England is an elevated 
tower, which overlooks the railway for several hun- 
dred yards around the depots. In the top of it are 
the handles of the various signals, some of which 
may be more than a mile distant. In some of the 
boxes there are as many as seventy handles, each 
connecting with a signal-flag or post at greater or 
less distance, and each near a switch, by the side 
of which there always stands a switch-tender, who 
is guided in all he does by the signal-master in the 
signal-box. By pulling a handle of his box, the 
signal-master displays a flag or lantern ; the switch- 
tender, at the point where the signal is set, knows 
its meaning, and alters his switch to agree with it ; 
the engineer of the approaching train also reads 
the signal, and dashes ahead or stops as it directs 
him. If it were not for the signal-master in his 
box, the trains at these busy stations would become 
confused and block the way. 

But the quickest and safest of the agents which 
direct the running of trains is one you never see 
nor hear. He does his work swiftly and silently. 
He runs ahead of each train and keeps the track 
clear, and when accidents occur, it is generally 




found that it is because he is disabled or neglectful 
of his duty. His name, as you will guess, is The 
Telegraph. Even- railroad has its telegraph line, 
and at every station an operator to mark the prin- 
cipal movements of the trains. In this way the 
trains are prevented from overtaking or running 
into each other. The telegraph is the signal-agent 
who does this ; and no matter how fast the trains 
may run, electricity will outstrip them. 

Not the least interesting feature of a depot, as 
you will find if you spend a day in one, is the dif- 
ference in the character of the trains. You will 
find trains for day and trains for night travel ; fast 
trains, making few stoppages, for persons going 
great distances, and called "express"' trains; and 
slower trains, making many stops, for the conveni- 
ence of persons going only a short distance, and 
called ''accommodation" trains. Then there are 
various kinds of freight trains, such as cattle and 
hog trains ; and on all the roads near great cities 
like Boston, New York and Philadelphia, there are 
even milk and egg trains. These reach the cities at 
an early hour of the morning, with the fresh milk 
and eggs collected the evening before in the coun- 
try, that they may be distributed by the milk-men 
and grocers at their customers' doors before break- 
fast. It is only fifteen or twenty years ago that 
most of the milk used in large cities was obtained 
from cows fed in city pens, instead of in wide, 
green pastures of the country; and then it was the 
"cow with the iron tail," as the old-fashioned 
pumps were called, that gave the most of the sup- 
ply. Now, long trains of cars, loaded with great 
tin cans or jars almost large enough to drown one 
in, carry to the cities the best milk of the finest 
cows in the richest meadows of the country. 

Trains are now run at about the rate of forty 
miles an hour, — sometimes much faster, and gen- 

erally somewhat slower. The fastest trains in 
England run at sixty miles an hour. To run at 
this rate, the piston or driving-rod of the locomo- 
tive must travel at the speed of 800 feet per min- 
ute, or so rapidly that it cannot be seen to move at 
all. George Stephenson, the first to claim that the 
locomotive could run at twelve miles an hour, was 
called insane until he proved it. It was but a few 
years after this that prominent engineers said that 
railway trains could be regularly run at the rate of 
100 miles an hour; and Stephenson was again 
called insane because he said that fifty miles an 
hour was as fast as trains could be regularly and 
safely run. But it is now discovered that he was 
nearly right, and locomotive-makers are no longer 
building engines to run faster than at this rate. 
But they are trying, instead, to save the time lost 
in taking coal and water for supplying the engines. 
On some lines a long open trough, forty feet long, 
is laid between the rails. This is filled with water. 
As the locomotive passes at the speed of fifty miles 
an hour, a pipe or scoop is lowered from it into this 
trough ; the water is thus dipped up and placed in 
the water-box for use by the engine. Another in- 
vention is a huge box raised above the road and 
rilled with coal. As the locomotive passes, it 
touches a spring, the box turns instantly upside 
down, and the coal drops into the tender, which 
runs behind the locomotive. The time which is 
thus saved will of course make the trips shorter, 
without calling for an increase of speed. It may 
be that when you are grown, railway trains will 
not be run any faster than they are now ; but, in 
spite of what George Stephenson has prophesied, 
I suspect some future American engineer, who is 
now a boy, will find means of running them twice 
as fast as they are now run, and I hope with 
greater safety to the passengers. 

i8 7 5.| 




By Margaret Eytinge. 

ND that 's all the crow said that 
afternoon the sparrow went to visit 

I sat under the willow-tree and 
heard the whole conversation. 

' How do you do ? " began the 
sparrow. "What a lovely Spring 
we have had ! — such bright sun- 
shine, such pleasant showers, and 
so many cherries ! Don't you think 

ismSSj so ? " 

"■ Caw ! " said the crow. 
" The bluebird has three sweet 
little ones," began the sparrow 
her head on one side. " They 're 
just as cunning as can be, though their mouths 
are rather large. Is n't it queer that birds' mouths 
grow small as the birds grow large ? Did you 
ever notice it ? " 

" Caw ! " said the crow. 

" I kliow a garden where there are hundreds of 
peas. I love young peas ; I could eat them for- 

again, putting 

ever — breakfast, dinner, and supper — and never get 
tired of them. They are so sugary and juicy ! " 

" Caw ! " said the crow. 

" The pretty gray pigeon that lives over at the 
big white house had a quarrel with his cousin this 
morning, and pushed him off the window-sill. I 
do think cousins should try to agree, and above all 
things not push each other off window-sills. " 

" Caw ! " said the crow. 

" O dear ! the sun has gone down behind the 
hill. I did n't dream it was so late," said the spar- 
row, hopping first on one foot and then on the 
other. " If my husband gets home before I do, he 
will say I 'm always gadding. But when one is in 
your company, one forgets that time is passing — 
you are so clever and witty. You must be sure to 
come to the next party I give ; my friends will be 
delighted to meet you. Good-bye ! " 

" Caw ! " said the crow — not another word. 

And yet that silly sparrow went about the next 
day, telling all the birds she knew, that the crow 
was the most entertaining fellow she had ever met. 


By T: E. D. 

" WHERE 'S Dorothy, mother ? " asked bluff Farmer Grey. 
As he entered the kitchen one morning in May, 
With despair in his tone, and a frown on his brow. 
And he growled: "Oh, that girl, what's become of her now? 
I told her to mend me those bags, hours ago, 
And here I 've been waiting, I 'd have her to know. 
'T is seldom that I with the children find fault; 
But sorely she tries me. — she don't earn her salt." 
The mother looked troubled, — " Wait, father, I '11 call," — 
And " Dorothy ! " sounded through chamber and hall. 

In a wide, roomy garret, weather-beaten and old, 
Where the spiders triumphant their banners unroll'd, 
And the small, narrow window half stinted the ray 
Which fell on the form of sweet Dorothy Grey, 
She sat by a chest filled with pieces and rolls — 
The odds and the ends dear to housekeepers' souls : 



The bags, worn and dusty, around her were tossed 
Unheeded, forgotten — in dreams she was lost. 
One hand propped her forehead, half hid by her hair, 
While the other held tightly a fairy-book rare. 
the wonderful pictures ! the glories untold ! 
That arose on her vision, all glitt'ring with gold ! 
The brown rafters vanished, and vanished the hoard 
Of cast-offs and may-wants her mother had stored ; 
Dried bunches of herbs, old clothes past repair, 
Heaps of carpet rags, saddle bags, spider-webbed stair. 

In their place was a ceiling, resplendent and high, 

All studded with stars, and as blue as the sky. 

Around it hung banners, and garlands so gay ! 

And wax-lights made everything bright as the day ; 

While strains of sweet music came soft on the air, 

And light feet were dancing right joyously there. 

O the beautiful ladies ! that swept through the rooms, 

With dresses like rainbows, and high nodding plumes. 

And the princes and lords, all in gallant attire, 

How they danced as the music rose higher and higher ! 

Then the fair Cinderella, — a lady at last ! 

With the Prince so resplendent, tripped smilingly past. 

O the exquisite story ! it held her in thrall. 

As she poured o'er the scenes of that wonderful ball ; 

Her red lips half parted with joy and surprise, 

While beaming and dancing with light were her eyes. 

i8 7 5-] 



Hist ! a step on the stair — her dreaming is o'er ! 
As " Dorothy ! " comes through the half-opened door, 
She starts as though guilty, poor child ! of a sin, 
And down goes the chest-lid, her treasure within. 
Yes, mother, I 'm coming ! " and smiling she goes 
Down the worm-eaten stairs — to be scolded, she knows. 
But chide her and scold her as long as they may, 
Still that beautiful vision hath Dorothy Grey. 

By Cyrus Cobb. 

THERE was a little boy named Frank. He was 
a noble little fellow, but now and then he would 
forget what his good mother had told him. One 
day he was playing in the back-yard, when he dis- 
covered a toad hopping through the grass. The 
sight of this toad seemed to amuse him very much. 
He jumped about him laughing and chuckling in 
such a manner, that the poor reptile presently 
stopped in his way, and with an air of much humil- 
ity waited to see what would come next. 

Now Frank was n't a cruel boy, but like most 
little boys he was apt to be thoughtless. When 
the toad stood still, he cried out to it, " Go 'long ! 
go 'long, or me whip you ! " at the same time flour- 
ishing a stick with which he had been playing. 
But the toad did not move ; so what did our boy 
do but bring the stick down upon its back with 
such force that it gave a hop of pain. 

Then occurred something exceedingly amazing. 

Looking up into the boy's face, the toad opened 
its mouth and said, 

"My little man, you ought not to have done 

Frank, who had never heard an animal speak 
before, started back with his stick held aloft, his 
eyes staring, and his mouth wide open. 

The toad never for a moment withdrew its own 
bright eye from Frank's, but seemed to penetrate 
his heart with its glance. 

Presently a kitten crept out from a great hole 
under the rear of the house, and being struck by 
so odd a picture, approached, and with a sort of 
introductory cough, followed by a little mew, ex- 
claimed : " What 's the matter ? " 

Frank was well nigh petrified by this speech on 
the part of the kitten, and all the motion he made 

was to turn one of his wide-open eyes toward the 
new speaker, while the other seemed still held by 
the toad's glance. 

" Frank just did a wicked turn," said the toad, 
without removing its glance from the boy. 

" How so ?" asked the kitten. 

" He struck me a hard blow with that stick,. 


which you see him holding in the air," returned 
the toad. 

At this instant a mouse put out its head from a 
small hole under the house. 

Kitty's fur began to rise at this, and she gave a 
growl, and she spit a little too. But somehow 
there seemed to be an extraordinary influence 
about, for the mouse paid no attention to these 
threatening signs from Miss Grimalkin, but out it 

9 o 



'o, ho!' cried the mouse." 

came, and running up to the group, squeaked : 
" What does all this mean ? " 

Pussy, whose impulse to eat up the mouse seemed 
to pass away, replied : 

" This naughty little fellow has just now given a 
hard blow on friend Toad's back with that stick. " 

" O, ho ! " cried the mouse, " what 's best to be 
done with him ? " 

" To Judge Ox," said the toad; and nodding its 
head to Frank, it hopped toward the gate, still 
keeping its bright eye on our little boy. 

Frank moved after the toad as if something drew 
him that he could n't resist. The kitten and the 
mouse fell in behind, making a sort of rear guard 
to this strange procession. 

The toad led the way into a field near by, in 
which an ox was grazing. As the train approached, 

the ox raised his head, and awaited their arrival 
with the utmost gravity. 

When within about a yard of the ox, the toad 
said : 

',' Your honor, I have just been struck in a griev- 
ous manner by this little boy." 

"Assault and battery with intent to kill," uttered 
the ox in a deep voice, at the same time turning a 
calm, dignified glance on Frank. "Let him be 
considered under arrest without more ado." 

Frank began now to tremble violently. 

"Let the case be presented to the grand jury 
immediately," continued the ox. " We do not de- 
lay," he added, with a severe look, " as men are 
wont to do." 

A grasshopper, heretofore unobserved, now step- 
ped forward, carrying a staff, which was only a 
straw, and led the toad, the kitten and the mouse 



away. Frank watched them furtively until they 
were out of sight, and then, on a motion from the 
ox, he sat down on a stone, while a grandfather- 
longlegs held him in custody. 

The grasshopper led the toad, the kitten, and the 
mouse to a secluded spot, where sat twenty-three 
beetles, who composed the grand jury, and in the 
midst of them was a ram, who was the district 

What passed here it would be improper for 
us to tell, for grand juries are very secret in 
their doings. It did leak out, however, that the 
kitten and mouse testified that they saw the blow 
given by Frank. They probably thought they did, 
but they did n't, which my little readers will find 
to be like a good deal of evidence that is given 
in the courts. 

To make the story short, an indictment was 

i8 75 .J 



found by this grand jury against our little boy, 
and duly presented. 

The ox now stopped chewing a cud he had in his 


mouth, and again declared that he could permit 
no delays such as were indulged in by men. 

"Choose," said he to poor Frank, "whom you 
would have for counsel." 

Our little boy didn't understand what the ox 
meant by this speech : but Grandfather-Longlegs 
explained that as he must be put on trial for the ox 
to find out whether he was guilty or not, he cer- 
tainly needed some one to work and talk for him 
as counsel. 

At that moment, Frank, who was all of a flut- 
ter, heard a bleating calf just coming on the 
ground ; and thinking him a fine talker, he de- 
clared to the court, in a voice that was almost 
inaudible, that he would take this calf to be his 

The ox bowed to the calf, and so did the ram, 
who you know was the district attorney, and there- 
fore, as counsel for government, was to contend 
against the calf. A jury of twelve frogs was im- 
paneled, and the indictment was read, setting forth 
in very learned terms that Frank had assaulted 
the toad vi ct armis, &c. , maliciously and fel- 
oniously, with intent to kill. To all this Frank, 
under the instructions of his counsel, pleaded "Not 
guilty," and the trial commenced, the process being 
a little different from the course in some of the 
courts of men. 

Alas for poor Frank! at the very first objection 
put in by his counsel, with a very loud voice, the 
ram bent both his brows and his head with such a 
terrible air, that the calf, losing all presence of 
mind, blurted out something nobody could under- 

stand, and ingloriously turned tail and ran for a 
clump of bushes near by. 

The ram made a dash for him, but the ox com- 
manded him to return to his place ; and then, in 
great disgust at the conduct of the calf, he asked 
the prisoner in a severe voice if he had anything to 
offer in his defense. 

Poor Frank was so terrified by the flight of the 
calf, the severe look of the ox. and the threatening 
horns of the ram, that he could not say a word, 
and so the ox said he could waste no more time. 
The case was given to the jury on the evidence of 
the toad, and they returned a verdict of " Guilty" 
without leaving their seats. 

Frank now thought something terrible was com- 
ing, and nearly fainted away. But Judge Ox bade 
Grandfather-Longlegs to help him stand up for 
sentence ; then a kindly smile stole over his sober 
look, and this is the sentence he pronounced : 

"The prisoner is sentenced to think over every 
night, when he goes to bed, how often he has been 
cruel to animals of any kind ; and when he recol- 
lects of abusing any, even if it be but a fly, to say 
to himself, ' I 'm very sorry, and will try very hard 
not to do so again.' " 

" O ! " cried Frank, gaining courage, " I will do 
that ! I will do that ! " 

Then the ox nodded his head, and Frank was 
led back home by Grandfather-Longlegs and the 
ram, the toad, the kitten and the mouse following 
behind. When they arrived at the house the ram 
and Grandfather-Longlegs made a bow and left, 
the toad hopped into the yard, and the kitten and 


mouse made for their holes. But just as the, mouse 
was going into his, pussy made a dart for him. 
Mouse}- was too quick for her, however, for giving 




his tail a whisk almost in pussy's face, he ran into 
his hole safe and sound. 

As for Frank, the lesson impressed upon him in 
so wonderful a way had such an excellent effect, 

and he kept his promise to Judge Ox so well, that 
the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Ani- 
mals took occasion, not long afterward, to mention 
him with honor. 

By Amalie La Forge. 

At the far end of the one little straggling street 
of the village of Glenburn, lived the widow Mac- 
Pherson and her son " Sandy, the hunchback," as 
he was always called by the neighbors. At the 
other end stood the little kirk, under whose shadow 
lay her husband and five children ; and now this 
one cripple boy was all that was left to remind her 
of long years of toil and loving service. Of all 
the bonnie lads and lasses, there remained but 
one — her poor deformed child. But the faithful 
mother's heart went out to him in double love and 
tenderness, and longed to shield him from every 
jeer and mocking laugh that stung his sensitive 

Sandy was no ideal character such as is often 
found in books, whose bodily deformity was more 
than balanced by the beauty of his face or the 
brilliancy of his genius. No, Sandy was not 
formed to be a hero of romance ; he was only a 
shrewd Scotch boy, whose wits were exercised more 
than would have been the case had he been able 
to race over the moor, or wade the brooks fishing 
for trout, or climb the heathery sides of the hills 
after birds' nests, as did his more fortunate com- 

His round, freckled face was crowned by a shock 
of light hair, and his bright blue eyes were more 
keen than beautiful. However, to his mother he 
was all in all ; and, to do him justice, his love for 
her was unbounded. He helped to cultivate her 
little patch of garden, hobbling about on his crutch, 
and he also contrived to eke out their scanty in- 
come by plaiting straw into mats and little fancy 
baskets, which found sale during the Summer 
months, when the neighboring town was much fre- 
quented by tourists, who were glad to carry away 
pretty mementos of their visit to the rugged Scot- 
tish hills. 

To niost of the simple villagers Sandy was an 
object of compassion, and also a quiet sort of liking. 

" He's a douce lad." one gossip would say to 

another; "but eh! my he'rt 's just sair for his 
puir mither." 

And " douce " Sandy generally was, unless when 
his naturally quiet temper was aggravated by taunts 
or mocking allusions to his misfortune, and then 
his hands would clench themselves hard together, 
and his blue eyes blaze into sudden wrath, — while, 
like any other wounded animal, he would hobble 
as swiftly as .possible to his lowly home, sure of 
shelter and a loving welcome there. 

"Eh, mither, what ha'e I dune," he would say 
sometimes, "that I s'uld be made sic a deform- 

Then his mother would take his hand gently in 
hers, stroking it softly as she said : 

" It 's the Lord's will, my lamb, an' ye must just 
bear it, for His sake." 

" But it's no richt o' Him," he answered once, 
" to mak' a body sae, an' then no' keep ithers frae 
flytin' them. I 'd rather dee an' ha'e dune wi' it." 

Then the tears rolled suddenly down the pale, 
patient face of his mother. 

"Oh, my bonnie lamb, ye maunna' say sic things; 
ye brak' my he'rt wi' yer wull words. An' eh ! 
Sanny, to think ye 'd like to dee A' leave yer puir 
auld minny, that wad just spill ilka drap o' her 
he'rt's bluid for ye gin it war ony guid ! " 

" Weel, weel, mither, I winna dee gin I can help 
it," Sandy answered with a queer grimace ; "but I 
canna' see why ye s'uld be sae ower fond o' sic a 
crooked stick." 

" Eh, Sandy, ye 're no' a mither," said the widow, 
with a tearful smile ; and as she moved about her 
work, she would pause often to give a nod or a 
word to Sandy, who sat whistling at his work under 
the old gnarled apple-tree which shaded the door. 

To do them justice, the boys in the village were 
almost all of them ready to render Sandy any help 
they could, as he made his toilsome way about the 
place, or in his expeditions after the mosses and 
lichens with which he filled the baskets which he 

i8 75 ] 



made for sale ; but there were two, of about his 
own age, who were Sandy's special aversion. One, 
I am bound to confess, was the minister's son ; 
and the other, his constant companion, Robert 
Allison, the son of "the laird," whose handsome 
abode was just in sight from the door of Sandy's 

Robert Allison and William Burton were insepa- 
rable ; when the one was not at the Manse, the 
other was sure to be ranging through the wild park 
which extended for some distance around " The 
Towers." Every morning Robert rode into Glen- 
burn on his little white pony, to recite his lessons 
at the Manse, and at those times Sandy generally- 
contrived to be invisible, for many was the taunt 
and cruel, thoughtless gibe which Robert had 
aimed at his pitiable misfortune. Once he had al- 
most ridden him down, and then laughed as Sandy 
shook his crutch threateningly after him, and in 
all his jokes and witticisms he was ably seconded 
by his friend and crony, Will Burton. 

The boys were not naturally bad ; they were 
only thoughtless and cruel in their strength and 
prosperity, — unable to understand that the boy, so 
unlike them in every respect, had feelings keener 
and far more easily wounded than were theirs. Is 
it any wonder that the feeling which Sandy enter- 
tained for them closely bordered on hate, and that 
sometimes, as he sat at his work brooding over 
his wrongs, a longing for revenge rose in his 
breast ? 

One day in the early Summer, Sandy sat at his 
work as usual, whistling one of the many old bal- 
lads which his mother had taught him, when all at 
once a clatter of horse's feet made him look up, 
and presently Robert Allison reined in his pony in 
front of the door. 

" Well, Sandy," he said at length/as Sandy took 
no notice of his approach. 

" Weel, sir." 

" Canna' you say anything to-day, Sandy ? " 

" Hoo can I ken when I hae naething to say ? " 
was the dry retort. 

Robert laughed. " Ye 're no' in a blithe humor 
to-day, my lad. Now, I 'm as gay as a laverock. 
The minister 's gone to the town, and we 've a 
whole holiday — Will and me ; though he, poor 
fellow, has a cold, and his mither winna' let him 
go out with me." 

Sandy made no reply. He was suspicious of all 
advances on the part of his tormentors, so took 
refuge in silence. Robert smiled mischievously. 

" It 's surly, my lad, no' to say a word to a 

Sandy looked up keenly. " There are some o' 
my fr'en's, as ye ca' them, that I 'm no' just weel 
acquainted wi' yet." 

" Well, Sandy, I 'm off for the moor ; it 's bon- 
nie there to-day." 

Then, suddenly stooping, he switched Sandy's 
basket of mosses off the stone on which he had 
placed it, with his riding-whip, and rode off, laugh- 
ing heartily at the abusive epithets which Sandy- 
hurled after him. 

" Noo 1 '11 ha'e just to gang efter more," sighed 
Sandy ruefully, as he examined his scattered treas- 
ures. " The bonnie red cups are a' broken, an' 
the baskets maun be ready by the morn's morn. 
The ne'er do weel ! " and he looked scowlingly 
down the road. 

" Mither ! " he called in at the door, " I 've to 
gang to the moor again." 

'• Eh, laddie ! what for?" 

Sandy pointed to his broken moss, and gave a 
short but graphic account of the occurrence, add- 
ing, with a frown : 

" The day's no' dune yet. I '11 mebbe gar him 
rue his wark yet. " 

" Sandy, Sandy ! " said his mother earnestly, 
" gin ye wer' to turn yer han' to do ill, my he'rt 
wad be clean brakkit. Ye 're a' I ha'e got, an' 
ye maunna' gar me greet sauter tears than I ha'e 

Sandy gazed at the ground for a minute, and 
then looking up with a sudden bright smile, he 
said, quaintly : 

"Weel, mither, ye 're just ane o' the angels frae 
heaven, an' ye 've stoppit the mouth o' the roarin' 

Then, taking his cap, he started down the road 
which Robert Allison had taken, stopping at the 
turn to wave his hand to his mother, who stood in 
the door-way looking fondly after him. 

Sandy was unusually successful that afternoon in 
finding the dried gray moss with its fairy-like cups 
of red, which he was seeking, and so occupied was 
he that the shadows were beginning to darken 
around him before he started for home. 

The moor stretched out for miles around him, 
and the little foot-path amongst the heather was 
almost hidden. However, he pressed on, and was 
nearing the cart track which led to Glenburn, when 
he thought he heard a shout, and then the barking 
of a dog. 

He stopped and listened intently. Before him 
swept away the long reach of heather ; to his left, 
at some distance, was a " peat moss," and from 
this the sound appeared to come. As Sandy list- 
ened, the cry was repeated. 

"It's ane o' the bogles auld Janet tells o', or 
else some puir body 's no' sae weel aff as he wad 
like to be," he muttered. " Weel, I maun gang 
an' see aboot it." And, setting his basket carefully 
down, he went in the direction of the sound. 




He had not gone far when a dog sprang quickly 
up from the heather, and began to fawn on him 
with eager caresses. It was a little Scotch terrier, 
and Sandy immediately recognized it as the prop- 
erty of Robert Allison. 

" Eh, puir doggie, what ha'e ye to tell me ? " he 
said, stooping to pat the animal's head. "Sae it 
was ye I heard, was it ? " 

The dog wagged its tail, and ran on a little way, 
always stopping to see if Sandy was following. 

" Eh, sae we 're to gang that gate, are we ? " he 
said coolly, following the dog's leadership. 

Presently he stopped. 

" Ye '11 gar us fa' into the peat-moss, if ye gang 
ony further, my lad," he said, addressing the dog, 
which had come back to his side. 

A low whining bark was the reply. 

Sandy reflected a minute. " Noo, my lad, ye be 
still a bit." Then, putting his fingers in his mouth, 
he blew a long shrill whistle. 

He was answered by a call which sounded quite 
near by. 

'• Wha are ye, an' hoo cam' ye there ? " shouted 

" Robert Allison," said the voice, weakly. 

Sandy, carefully picking his steps, contrived to 
come in sight of his old enemy, who, he now saw, 
had fallen into one of the holes in the peat-moss, 
and was unable to extricate himself. 

Robert's countenance fell as he caught sight of 
Sandy, who, leaning both arms on his crutch, stood 
quietly looking at him. 

" Sandy, I canna' get out." he said presently. 

" I could ha'e tauld ye that, Maister Robert." 
was the cool retort. 

Tears of vexation started to the boy's eyes. 

" Eh, man," he exclaimed, falling naturally into 
the common dialect, " dinna' stand there glo.''erin' 
at me. Canna' ye help me oot ? " 

"An' why s'uld I help ye oot? I'm nae sae 
mickle obleeged to ye for onything ye ha'e dune, 
that I s'uld risk my ain neck to serve ye." 

" Weel, then, I maun just stay here," was the 
sullen reply. " I 'm tired wi' struggling an' I can- 
na' get oot — so good-night to ye." 

This dogged courage pleased Sandy, who chuck- 
led a little. 

" Na, Maister Robert, I didna' say I wad na' 
help ye. Hoo did ye fa' in ? " 

" I saw a bonnie birdie fly in here, an' I thought 
mebbe I wad find its nest, and I forgot about the 
holes, and so I fell in." 

"Ay, an' noo hoo are ye to get oot again? 
Eh, doggie, doggie, winna' ye be still, an' lat me 
think ? " said Sandy, pushing the little terrier gently 

It was a dreary place. All around were the 

holes, like great open graves, from which the peat 
had been dug ; many of them half full of water as 
black as ink. The dim. weird light made it seem 
doubly lonely and terrible. Every here and there 
were tufts of coarse grass, which afforded a footing, 
insecure enough, but still the only way of crossing 
the moss with safety. Sandy stood on one of these, 
musing over the situation. 

Robert began to get impatient. The hole into 
which he had fallen was luckily less full of water 
than were many of the others ; but it was deep, and 
the sides were slimy to the touch and altogether 
unable to afford a foothold r so his efforts to free 
himself had only brought him fatigue of body and 
vexation of spirit. 

" Sandy, man," he exclaimed. " canna' ye leap 
on the turfs an' gi'e me yer hand ? " 

" Weel, I 'm nae ower gude at leapin'. I ha'e 
na' practeeced it much, ye see," retorted Sandy, 

Robert's face flushed hotly, and he prudently 
said nothing further. 

By and by, Sandy began to advance slowly and 
cautiously, feeling the ground with his crutch be- 
fore venturing on it. By this means he proceeded 
safely till within a few feet of Robert Allison, who 
watched his progress with eager interest. 

"Noo, Maister Robert," he said, pausing, "I 
ha'e ane word to say to ye. I ha'e often wished 
for the chance to do ye an ill turn, an' mebbe I 
wad ha'e dune it noo gin it had na' been for my 
mither. An' I just want ye to reflect that ye micht 
ha'e staid where ye are the haill nicht, if Sandy 
had had an ill min' as weel as an ill skin." 

Robert hung his head. '" Sandy, I 'm sorry," 
he said presently. 

" Weel, there 's naething mair to be said. Tak' 
a grip o' my stick, an' I '11 try to pull ye oot. " 

Robert was heavy, and the strain on Sandy's 
back hurt him cruelly ; but still he persevered, and 
after some time he had the satisfaction of seeing 
the other on firm ground again. 

" Eh, Maister Robert, sic a plight as ye 're in ! " 
and Sandy looked at him in unfeigned dismay. 
The black mud had clung to his garments, and 
even besmirched his face. 

" Noo be carefu' hoo ye walk," he said, leading 
the way back to the road. 

Robert would have liked to offer thanks, but did 
not dare to do it, so followed on silently. When 
they had nearly reached the cart track, Sandy 

" I canna' gang on, Maister Robert," he said 
faintly ; then a sudden pallor overspread his face, 
and he fell heavily to the ground. 

Robert uttered a cry of alarm, and, springing 
forward, tried anxiously to raise him ; but he was 




forced to give up the attempt, and, sitting down 
beside him, he resolved to wait, in hopes of some 
one coming. His clog lay down at his side, howl- 
ing mournfully from one to the other. 

The minutes passed like hours, and still Sandy 
lay unconscious. Robert was almost giving way 
to despair, when he heard the creaking of wheels, 
and to his great joy a cart soon came in sight. 

fore the kirk, " ye maun run on, Maister Robert, 
an' tell the lad's mithcr, an' we '11 com' slowly 
efter ye." 


i » 

said Robert, huskily. 

" Maister Robert, ye maun just do it ; we 've all 
to do things we dinna' like, whiles." 

And Robert, with downcast eyes and wildly- 
beating heart, started on his mission. The mother 


The two men who were in it both jumped out 
when they saw the melancholy little group by the 

"Aye, but this is ill news for his puir mither," 
said one, compassionately, as they lifted the boy 
tenderly into the cart. 

" Noo, Maister Robert, get in wi' yer doggie, 
an' we'll take ye hame." 

Sandy's little basket of moss was still where he 
had left it, and Robert, with a sudden rush of bitter 
recollections, took it up carefully, and climbed into 
the cart. 

"Noo," said one of the men. as he stopped be- 

made no outcry ; her face grew a shade paler, that 
was all. 

" Is he deid, laddie ? " she asked, as Robert fin- 
ished his rather incoherent account. 

" No, no," said the boy, eagerly; and then the 
cart stopped at the door, and Sandy was carried in 
and laid on the bed. 

" There 's a great London doctor up at ' The 
Towers,' seeing my mother. I '11 fetch him." 

And Robert dashed out of the house and up the 
street, not pausing even to notice his crony. Will 
Burton, who called after him to know what was the 




He soon returned with the doctor, who remained 
a very long time in the little inner room where 
Sandy was lying. 

By and by, Sandy's mother came out, and 
Robert caught her dress as she passed, not seeing 
him in the dusky gloom. 

"Will he die?" he asked. 

" Na, na, laddie; he'll no' die," she answered, 
gently ; " an' the doctor says he '11 mebbe be able 
to do something for the lad's back yet, — he '11 no' 
be like ither folk, but he '11 mebbe walk wi'oot his 

And Robert, dropping his face in his hands, 
burst into sudden tears. 

" Eh, laddie, ye maunna' greet ; ye '11 ha'e both 
gotten a lesson the day ye '11 no' forget," she said, 
tenderly. Then, with true delicacy, she left him 
to himself. 

Sandy opened his eyes, when she again bent over 

" Weel, mither," he said, faintly. 

"Wed, Sandy." 

"What was it ye read aboot the crooked things 
bein' made straight ? Mebbe I 'm ane of the crooked 
things that He'll be makin' straight up there." 

"Aye, Sandy, my lamb ; but no' yet. Ye 're to 

stay wi' yer puir auld mither noo," she answered, 

He smiled contentedly. 

" Weel, mither, I could na' stay wi' onyane bet- 
ter, except the Ane that's above us a'." 

The next few weeks were calm and peaceful 
ones. Sandy was soon able to sit up, and, under 
the new treatment prescribed by the doctor, grew 
rapidly better. He soon began to work at his 
baskets again, and his new friend Robert was never 
so happy as when scouring the country in search 
of curious mosses wherewith to fill them. And 
when Will Burton ventured a remonstrance, he 
was told plainly that only by kindness and courtesy 
to the poor cripple could he retain the liking of 
his former constant companion ; and he, always 
accustomed to be led by the bolder spirit, consented 
now to let it lead him in the paths of kindness and 

Robert's devotion was not a mere impulse ; he 
became more and more attached to his humble 
friend ; and for years after the happy day when the 
invalid was able to go about again in the pleasant 
sunshine, there were no firmer friends in the little 
village of Glenburn than Robert Allison, the laird's 
son, and Sandy, the hunchback. 


HAVE you heard of a baby far over the sea — 

A baby as pretty as pretty can be ? 

Florence they call her. To Florence she came 
When sent to this earth, — that gave her the name. 
A Yankee papa and mamma she doth bless — 
Our Florentine baby 's a Yankee no less ; 
*And one of these days we '11 unfurl to her view 
The flag of her country — the red, white and blue ! 
The pretty signoras oft stop on the street, 
Delighted the beautiful baby to meet. 
Birds hover about her, and baby says "Coo!" 
As they warble and trill her a sweet "How d'ye do?" 
Even the doggies that come in her way 
Wag, in Italian, a merry "Good-day!" 
Lilies nod softly, and roses would screen her — 
Everything smiles at the wee signorina. 
Never a blossom so pretty as she — 
Florence, our baby-girl over the sea ! 





By Julia S. Tutwiler. 

Well, here I am in this little old-fashioned Ger- 
man village of Kaiserwerth, on the east bank of 
the beautiful Rhine, in the midst of flat meadows 
and fields, intersected by broad roads bordered 
with Lombardy poplars. Far off against the hori- 
zon we can see the spires of the city of Dusseldorf, 
and the old town of Ratingen ; and still further off 
is a line of low, blue hills. These are the foot-hills 
of the Sauerland Mountains, which fill a great part 
of Westphalia, the next province to ours, with beau- 
tiful highlands and valleys. 

Passing along the cleanly swept streets of the 
village of Kaiserwerth, on the 5th December last, 
I noticed that groups of wooden-shod children 
kept gathering with great interest around the win- 
dow of the " conditorei," that is, the confectioner's 
shop. Wishing to see what attracted them so par- 
ticularly, or, as the Germans say, "what was loose 
there," I went to the window too, and stood among 
the little Germans, looking over their heads. 

Such a store of cakes ! but not cakes like those 
usually in the shop-window. Oh no, indeed ! 
These were something quite out of the common 
way; they were all picture-cakes. Here was a 
great big brown rooster with a flowing tail, and 
a lordly crest; here was a lady in a ruff and splen- 
did garments, and here a knight in armor with 
sword and lance. But especially prominent among 
these and many other smaller figures, were great 
big figures, nearly two feet long, representing a 
bishop with his crosier in his hand, his miter on 
his head, and his ornamental robes flowing in gin- 
ger-cake around him. Of course I went in — for I 
am quite well acquainted at the confectioner's — to 
ask "what was loose" there; and whether they 
had not made a mistake and begun to have Christ- 
mas three weeks too soon. But my friend the con- 
fectioner's blond-haired daughter, who takes a great 
interest in enlightening me as an ignorant foreigner, 
I informed me that the next day, the 6th, would be 
St. Nicholas' Day, and that all these things, and 
many others upstairs, would be purchased by their 
customers for its celebration. Now, I had been 
very well acquainted with St. Nicholas in America, 
and had believed that I knew everything about 
him, from his personal appearance to the names of 
his team of "tiny reindeer; " but then, in America, 
it was always on Christmas night that 

"Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound," 

— and this seemed to be something different. So I 
VOL. III.— 7. 

determined to find out all I could about the habits 
of St. Nicholas in Germany, and very gladly ac- 
cepted Grctchen's invitation to walk upstairs and 
see the exhibition or show-room fitted up in his 
honor. Here, on a counter running around three 
sides of it, were more piles and piles of picture- 
cakes ; many of the large ones such as I had seen 
down-stairs, and heaps of smaller ones to be sold 
by the pound. Then there was one counter filled 
with all sorts of little candy figures ; the most com- 
mon ones were little babies whose heads alone could 
be seen ; their hands and all the rest of the figure 
being enveloped in candy folds and narrow ribbons 
crossed around and around them and tied fast. 
Now, you may think the Germans very irreverent 
when I tell you that these candy babies represent 
the Child-Jesus, the Christ-kind, as they call him, 
in his swaddling bands; but we must not judge 
uncharitably of the habits of other countries; they 
have their ideas as to what is right and wrong, and 
we have ours ; I will only tell you what they do, 
without giving any opinion. 

Then there were candy figures of an old man, 
with gray beard and hair, which represented St. 
Nicholas himself; then all sorts of pretty little fancy 
candies, such as we see in America; and especially 
plentiful were little candy shoes, for the most part 
made of brown chocolate, with white rosettes and 
trimmings. Gretchen was very kind in showing 
me everything, and explaining it all to me ; she 
even brought in from the kitchen some of the 
wooden molds in which the cakes are shaped. 
These are thick, square blocks of wood, with the 
figure to be made deeply cut into them ; the dough 
is pressed firmly into this cutting until it takes its 
shape, and it is then taken out and baked. 

Of course I asked a great many questions, both 
there and after I returned to my German home ; 
and I will tell you now what I learned. 

St. Nicholas, whose image I had seen both in 
cake and candy, was a real person, and a very good, 
holy man ; he lived about 300 years after the birth 
of Christ, in Syria, a province of Asia Minor, where 
Paul himself first preached Christianity to the 
heathen inhabitants. (Look at your map, girls.) 
There he was Bishop of the city of Myra. I cannot 
tell you all about his good and holy life in this let- 
ter ; I will only mention that he was very fond of 
the children of his congregation, and took great 
pleasure in teaching them and talking to them ; 
and always so lovingly and gently, that all the 

9 8 



children of the city loved very dearly their good 
Father Nicholas. When he died, he was called a 
saint. In those old times people liked to fancy 
what particular work for their Lord was given in 
their new life to the good men who had been de- 
voted to good deeds in this world ; so they chose 
for St. Nicholas, as best suited to his character, the 
care of all the little children of earth, and loved to 
think that he was still watching over and helping 
the little ones he had loved. 

Many curious legends are related of him, one of 
which, you may remember, was finely told in the 
Letter-Box of this magazine a year ago. 

While the little ones of the city still remembered 
the lovely, kind old man, with the silver hair and 
beard, who had talked so lovingly to them of the 
Good Shepherd, whose little lambs they were, their 
mothers could always persuade them to try to be 
good, by reminding them of what their dear old 
friend had said to them. On each anniversary 
of his death, the people of the city in which he 
had spent his life met together in the churches 
to hold a service in memory of his virtues, and at 
nightfall mothers would give to their good children, 
with words of praise and encouragement, such little 
gifts as their kind old bishop had been wont to give 
them when he met them in his walks. So the chil- 
dren came to feel as if their dear old Father Nicho- 
las was still watching lovingly over them, and com- 
ing to see them once every year to bring them 
tokens of his love and approbation ; and they formed 
the habit of saying that the gifts which they received 
on this day were from St. Nicholas. 

As time passed on, much was forgotten of his 
history, and much was added to it, as will always 
be the case with a story that travels around among 
nurses and children. For example, the children 
grew to believe that St. Nicholas came in the night 
on a beautiful shining white horse, and put their 
presents for them on the table beside their beds ; 
and as they wanted to do something to show how 
much they thanked him, they began to put some- 
thing for hi's horse to eat after his long journey, on 
the plate which they stationed by the bedside to 
receive the goodies which St. Nicholas brought. 
Now here comes the difficult point ; nobody that I 
have seen in Germany can tell me why it is that 
the food for St. Nicholas' horse must always be 
put in a little shoe ! For this purpose the little 
chocolate shoes I have mentioned are intended ; 
the children buy them always on St. Nicholas' Eve. 
Whatever the legend or the story was that caused 
this use of the little shoe, it seems to be entirely 
lost, even in Germany. 

I have tried all the more earnestly to find out the 
origin of this custom, because, I think, it must be 
connected in some way with our custom of hanging 

up a stocking for St. Nicholas; how the good saint 
came to have his shoes in Germany and his stock- 
ings in America, I should very much like to know. 
A. young German girl, on hearing me speak of my 
young country folk hanging up their stockings on 
Christmas eve, said, " Oh ! I remember, that Ameri- 
can custom is mentioned in the descriptions of 
Christmas-day in the " Vite, Vite Vurld." You 
see the German girls love Miss Warner's book just 
as much as you do, and read it over and over again, 
sometimes in German, but often in English ; for 
nearly all well-taught German children read Eng- 
lish. Instead of learning Latin and algebra, as 
you do, they give a great deal of time to learning 
to read and speak the modern languages. I really 
cannot say which is the wiser plan, but both have 
their advantages. 

One of the deaconesses, good and wise Sister Els- 
peth, "meine liebe mutter schwester," told me how 
they celebrated St. Nicholas' day at her sisters 
house, and in a great many other German families: 
Late in the evening, on the day before, just about 
the time when the children are usually sent to bed, 
a loud knocking is heard at the door; the mother, 
or auntie, goes out to let the stranger in, and comes 
running back, with: 

"Oh! children! children! what do you think? 
here is St. Nicholas coming in ; the Christ-kind has 
sent him to ask about you all, that he may know 
whether to bring you any presents at Christmas or 
not ? " The children all become very much ex- 
cited. Little Hanschen pulls his apron straight ; 
Karl smooths down his hair with his hand; little 
Meta turns out her toes, as auntie is reminding 
her to do all day long; and as they are all on tip- 
toe with expectation, the door opens and in walks 
St. Nicholas. A great big bag hangs by his side ; 
long, snow white hair falls from under his bishop's 
cap ; and so much long silvery beard covers his 
face, that the children can hardly see anything but 
his eyes. These, however, look so kind and good, 
and twinkle so pleasantly, that little Hanschen lets 
go the mother's dress and ventures a step nearer 
to the new guest. The latter bows very politely to 
mother and auntie, and says that as Christmas is 
very near, the Christ-kind has sent him to all the 
houses of the village to find out to what children 
the Christ-kind must bring presents at Christmas, 
when he comes in his little well-filled wagon. Then 
the saint makes very particular inquiries about each 
child. '"Has Meta learned to turn out her toes 
when she walks, better than she did last Christmas?" 
Meta's toes turn wider and wider apart as he speaks, 
and auntie says : " I think Meta is trying very hard 
to learn to walk like a graceful little lady." Meta 
smiles with pleasure, and St. Nicholas gives a nod 
of satisfaction. "And does Karl eat all his soup 

i8 7 5-] 



every day before he asks for anything else, and 
never grumble about anything that is put on his 
plate ? " " Yes, Karl has learned not to be a baby 
about his dinner," says the mother, " and is getting 
ready to be a brave soldier some day, by thanking 
God for whatever He gives, and eating it without 
ever thinking about it." " Schon ! schon ! " says 
St. Nicholas, which means " Good ! good ! " "And 
has Hiinschen been a diligent little boy, and learned 
by heart some little Christmas hymns to sing under 
the Christmas-tree?" And little Hanschen, the 
youngest of them all, his face as red as fire with ex- 
citement, and his blue eyes as wide open as he can 
stretch them, before the mother can answer, opens 
his mouth, and bursts out just as loud as he can 
sing, with his new Christmas hymn : 

" Holy night ! silent night ! 
Darkness all, save yon light 
Shining o'er the stable where 
Watch the worshiping, blessed pair, 
By the Heavenly Child." 

"Well done," says St. Nicholas, " I will ask the 
Christ-kind on Christmas-day to bring a very full 
wagon to this house ; and now, to show what very 
nice things He is going to bring with Him, He has 
sent you beforehand a few specimens of what He 
will have in His wagon." 

So he opens the big bag that hangs by his side 
and brings out apples and nuts, candy, Christkind- 
chens, and all sorts of cakes, especially big figures 
of himself, and gives some to each one of the de- 
lighted children ; tells them to be as good as they 
have been, and, if possible, better, until Christmas 
comes, and they shall have still more beautiful 
gifts. Then he shakes hands with the children, 
makes a low bow to the mother and auntie, and 
says he must hurry off, as he has to visit every house 
in the village and inquire about all his children. 
Sometimes, instead of St. Nicholas coming in per- 
son, the father goes to the door when the knock is 
heard, and comes back with a great bag of good 
things, and tells the children all that St. Nicholas 
asked him, and what he answered before receiving 
this foretaste of Christmas for them. 

On this last St. Nicholas' day, I heard great 
laughing, mingled with delighted exclamations, 
and a good deal of scampering about, in the Orphan 
Home, which is next door to our seminary. In this 
home about forty little orphans are receiving a 
Christian education, under the loving, tender care 
of the good deaconesses. I learned afterward that 
it was a visit from St. Nicholas which had caused 
the excitement ; and that the saint was, this time, 
no less a person than one of the three pastors of 
the "Anstalt," as this whole group of institutions 
is called. It was Pastor George Hiedner, the son 
of the great and good Pastor Hiedner, who founded 

the Anstalt, and did so many other blessed works 
of mercy for Germany and the world. I wish we 
had one such man in our country. But was n't it 
kind in young Pastor George Hiedner to take so 
much interest in amusing and pleasing the little 
orphans? I think it was as good as if he had 
preached a sermon to them ; for it showed his love 
and his interest in a way that even the youngest 
could understand and enjoy. 

Sometimes, when the poorer people have no 
spare room in which to set up and dress a Christ- 
mas-tree, St. Nicholas is supposed to come in the 
night, on his shining white horse, and leave pres- 
ents for the children on the table by their beds 
while they are all asleep ; and if the children have 
not a groschen to buy a candy shoe, in which to 
put the food for his horse, they cut one out of a 
potatoe and put the oats and bread in that ; but a 
shoe it must be. I am sorry there are any children 
in Germany too poor to have a Christmas-tree ; for 
a Christmas-tree in this far country is — oh ! I can't 
tell you how charming that and everything else 
about a German Christmas is, unless I write you 
a whole letter about nothing else. 

Now, should you like to hear a little story about 
St. Nicholas' day? Yes? Well, here is 

What St. Nicholas Brought to the 

Once upon a time there was a very rich German 
merchant, who had a very beautiful daughter. She 
did not have two envious elder sisters, like the mer- 
chant's daughter Beauty, in the fairy-tale. On the 
contrary, she had no elder sisters at all ; but a 
whole crowd of merry, romping younger brothers 
and sisters, who loved her dearly. In fact, they 
could not help doing so, for Bertha was as good as 
she was beautiful. 

Now this charming young lady had many lovers, 
but none of them had won her heart. She was 
gentle and merry with them all, granting special 
favor to none. Of course there was a reason for 
this, as there generally is in such cases. There was 
a very quiet, modest young man, who lived in 
Bertha's home as tutor to her little brothers and 
sisters. He was what they call in Germany a can- 
didate ; that is, he had studied to be a minister, 
but had not yet been given the charge of a con- 

Bertha had met him as a stranger a few years 
before, when both were visiting in Holland. She 
was skating one day on one of the frozen canals 
near Amsterdam, and in stooping to tighten her 
skate-strap she had dropped a pretty trinket. This 
young man had found it, had given it to her with 
a courteous "It is vours, Fraulein ! " She had 




thanked him and passed on. That was all, but 
neither of them forgot the moment, and neither 
tried to hide a bright look of recognition when in 
time the good merchant formally introduced the 
new tutor to his daughter. 

At first he had been very happy in his new 
capacity, and had helped to make everybody else 

the world ; and that they believed a good, true- 
hearted man, like the young candidate, was the 
very person to make her so. 

" I can give her money enough," said her father, 
"but money alone cannot bring her happiness, and 
that is what I want for her." 

The good mother assented ; and they came to 

so, by his pleasant, sunny temper, and his merry 
plans. But for the last few months he had been 
grave and silent, and, though the children loved 
him dearly still, they could not find his company as 
amusing as it once was. 

Fraulein Bertha, too, had lost a great deal of 
her pretty color, and often looked very absent and 
sad when she thought no one was watching her. 

The good father and mother soon saw what was 
the matter, and spoke to one another about it. 
They agreed *.hat they would rather see their dear 
daughter happy than to have any other blessing in 

the conclusion that they need only be quiet, and 
things would soon come right of themselves. But 
months passed away, and things did not seem to 
be coming right at all. The young candidate 
grew graver and paler, and his eyes began to look 
quite sunken and hollow. Bertha could not eat 
any of the nice things that her anxious father piled 
up on her platter each day, in the hope of tempt- 
ing her appetite ; and she was so nervous that the 
slightest thing startled her. One day her mother 
begged her to say all that was on her heart. The 
pretty Bertha burst into tears, and. bowing her 




head on her mother's shoulder, told her trouble. 
It was not much to tell — only that she knew that 
the candidate loved her dearly, and was too proud 
to tell her so, because he was so poor. 

" And how about my Bertha," said the mother; 
but Bertha only clasped her more tightly and 
sobbed harder than before. " It is nothing to be 
ashamed of that my dear little daughter should 
have learned to love a good and noble man, who 
for months has evidently loved her better than any- 
thing in the world ; and it is better that we should 
talk of the matter reasonably together." 

So at last Bertha was quiet and calm, and looked 
happier than she had done for months, as her 
mamma talked in the pleasantest possible way to 
her about the many virtues of the young can- 

Still matters remained at a stand-still; the father 
showed as much friendship as possible to the young 
man, and the mother had long motherly talks 
with him about his health, and scolded him in the 
most affectionate way for not taking better care of 

But the kinder they were to him, the more 
determined he became in his own mind that it 
would be a very mean thing for him to take advan- 
tage of this confidence and friendship by trying to 
persuade their daughter to be the wife of a poor 
young minister. So the whole family was very 
uncomfortable indeed, and all because one young 
man was too modest to see what everybody else 
saw very plainly. 

At last, when the good mother could not bear 
any longer to see so many people made uncomfort- 
able without reason, she told Fraulein Bertha that 
she must really set her woman's wits to work and 
find some way out of the difficulty, else it would 
end in a very painful way for them all, by the 
lover's dying of a broken heart. 

It was the fifth of December — St. Nicholas' Eve — 
and all the little brothers and sisters were gathered 
around the table in the sitting-room, in a great 
state of excitement preparing for the expected visit 
of the Saint in the coming night, on his silver- 
white steed. 

Besides the little ornamented shoes, which hold 
the forage for the horse, the children in a great 
many houses set out their own shoes also on this 
night, just as you hang up your stocking ; in 
fact, in some parts of Germany the children do 
that too, but it is not a common custom. The 
Saint is very apt to leave a little gift in each of the 
little leathern shoes, if he finds them very neat and 
shining ; not the great handsome presents which 
the Christ-kind brings at Christmas, but a pretty 
little something to keep them in mind that Christ- 
mas is coming — a half-dozen marbles, a little pin- 

cushion, or a little box of bon-bons. The children 
take great pride in having their shoes in the best 
possible condition at this time ; and instead of 
trusting Hans to black and polish them as usual, 
there is a great borrowing of blacking-brushes from 
the kitchen, and so much polishing and brushing 
takes place in the. nursery that the nurse declares 
they make the floors and their aprons blacker than 
their shoes. 

This time the little leathern shoes had been 
polished till the little owners could almost see 
themselves in them ; and nurse had washed hands 
and faces, and put clean aprons on all that still 
wore this nursery-badge ; and now they were very 
busy arranging the forage for the beautiful white 
horse. Kind sister Bertha was helping them, and 
trying to laugh with them at their merry chatter. 

" See, sister Bertha," said little Fritz, " I am 
going to put rye for the Saint's horse in my candy- 
shoe, and Max is going to put water in his ; so 
there will be both food and water there for the good 
horsy, and he will be well refreshed before he goes 
on to the next house." 

" I will put sugar for him in mine," said little 

" No, indeed, Katchen, I would not do that. 
St. Nicholas' horse can always get sugar enough, 
for his master carries a great bag full of sugar 
things on his back. ' He would much rather have 
some rye, and some good fresh water," said wise 
little Wilhelm. "Is not that true, Herr Dreifuss?" 
he added, appealing to the grave young teacher, 
who sat quietly by, and who now nodded assent. 

" You did not see St. Nicholas to-day," said 
Bertha upon this, turning to him. " Did you 
know he came this afternoon, between dinner and 
coffee, while you were taking your solitary walk? 
He was in a great hurry, but he got news of all the 
children for the Christ-kind, left a bag of apples 
and nuts for them, and promised to come again 
to-night to bring us all another foretaste of Christ- 

" I am sorry I did not see him," said the young 
teacher, trying to be interested in the pleasures of 
his little pupils. 

''However, he inquired especially about you," 
said Bertha, "and we gave him such a good 
account that he left word you must be sure to put 
your very largest pair of shoes before the door of 
your room to-night for him to fill for you." 

"Oh, Herr Dreifuss," said little Katchen, eagerly, 
' ' you must make a shoe for the good Saint. You 
can cut everything so nicely with your knife. See, 
here is a great big lump of sugar. Cut a shoe all 
out of sugar, and I will give you some rye to put 
in it. Then, when the horse has eaten the rye, he 
can eat the shoe too." 





Herr Dreifuss thanked the helpful little maiden, 
and, to the great pleasure of the children, began 
to carve a shoe out of the big lump of sugar, 
while Bertha silently looked on. 

Usually Herr Dreifuss was very skillful in such 
matters, and had made many a piece of doll furni- 
ture for the little folks ; but to-day his hands trem- 
bled, the knife slipped, and, in short, everything 
seemed to conspire to make him look clumsy and 
stupid in the eyes of Fraulein Bertha. So he hur- 
ried through with his task at last without caring 
much how it succeeded. 

" It looks more like a heart than a shoe ! " cried 
Fritz. " Does n't it, sister Bertha? " 

And so it did — like a great, irregularly-shaped 
heart; and the place where the foot should go in 
looked as if it were the rent where this big heart 
was beginning to break asunder. 

The candidate saw that Fritz was right, and won- 
dered at his own awkwardness. 

"Yes, it is a very poor shoe," he said; "we 
will not set it out for St. Nicholas ; he will have so 
many prettier ones." 

" I think it does very nicely," said Bertha, " and 
I am sure St. Nicholas will think so too. You 
must be sure to put it on your table, and your 
largest pair of shoes before your door, just as the 
children do." 

"Well, I will certainly obey you." said Herr 
Dreifuss, trying to smile cheerfully in response to 
her kindness. 

He went to his room, as usual, with a heavy 

" Yes, it is just like her angelic sweetness," he 
thought. " She sees my hopeless love, and pities 
it ; and now she has made some little token to give 
me, to show me that she is sorry for me, and will 
be my friend. Ah ! I ought to be happy that 
she is willing to be even this much to me, since 
I know that she never, never can be anything 

And this very stupid young man — stupid only on 
this subject — after setting his big slippers outside 
his door, went to bed and dreamed all night long, 
as usual, of golden hair and kind blue eyes. In 
the morning he woke with a slight feeling of 
pleasant expectation, and the first thing he did was 
to open his door to get his slippers. But — no 
slippers were to be seen ! 

" It was all a jest, in order to hide my slippers," 
he thought, "but it is not a kind or pleasant jest. 
However, she could not have meant it unkindly — 
that would be too unlike her ; so I must take it as 
she meant it." 

And with his yesterday's heavy heart he went 
down to the breakfast-room. All the children were 
already there around the table, chattering like so 

many blackbirds, showing the mother and the 
father the Christkindchens, and big cake images 
of himself, which St. Nicholas had laid on their 
tables and dropped into the shining shoes before 
their doors. 

" And his horse ate all the rye I put in the candy 
shoe," said delighted little Fritz. 

" And drank all my water ! " cried Neas. 

" And ate my sugar, too," said Katchen, " and 
left a great big cake-rooster, almost as big as the 
one in the poultry-yard, on my table." 

"And what did he bring you, dear Herr Drei- 
fuss?" said the little pet, running up to her teacher, 
and taking his hand. " Did he really have some- 
thing large and beautiful to put in your shoes ? 
and was it a cake rooster ? " 

" No, little Katchen, he did not put anything 
in my slippers. On the contrary, he carried 
them off with him. I think he must have wanted 
them to make a new pair of saddle-bags for his 

Little Katchen opened her blue eyes very wide, 
and looked as if she felt very doubtful as to the 
propriety of such conduct on the part of a Saint. 
However, just then the conversation was brought 
to a full stop by the entrance of sister Bertha ; 
everybody looked curiously at her as she came 
in ; for instead of her usual light-springing step, 
she came slipping and sliding along in the most 
extraordinary manner, as if she were suddenly 

"What is the matter, sister Bertha ? " cried all 
the children together ; but the father and mother 
did not say a word, and Bertha did not answer any 
of the others. She only came quietly slipping 
along. The young candidate looked, too, to see 
what was the matter ; and there, on her pretty 
little feet — even over her own dainty shoes — were 
his great slippers ! Bertha did not say a word, but 
came and stood quietly, with clasped hands and 
downcast eyes, right before the candidate ! Yes, 
blushing, but very brave and steady — for were not 
her father and mother by, and did not they ap- 
prove? — she stood waiting for him to take her. 

But the candidate ! what could he think? He 
felt as if the room were whirling around him. All 
was mystery. He looked at the slippers ; but that 
did not help him — this stupid young man ; then 
he looked at the little white hands clasped loosely 
together, but they did not explain the matter either ; 
then he looked at the sweet, downcast face, with 
the soft blushes coming and going upon it, and 
Bertha raised her eyes. and looked into his. Then 
he understood it all — right off — without a word ; 
and jumped up and clasped the little hands in his 
and kissed them a hundred times. Then he gave 
a hearty kiss to the good mother, and then, as they 




were both Germans, gave the father also a hearty 
embrace and kiss. 

" So Bertha and the young man got married, 
and lived happily ever afterward ? " 

Certainly they did. And now, girls, remember 
I do not relate this story as an example to any of 
my girls in America. I merely "tell the tale as it 
was told to me." 



A Chapter for Girls, Little and Big (with a few 
Useful Hints for Boys). 

When the red and yellow leaves have fallen, 
and boughs are brown and bare ; when the katy- 
did's noisy chirp is hushed, and the last bird has 
flown away, then the brave, stalwart evergreens 
seem to stand forward and take possession of the 
deserted woods. Their very look is suggestive. 
They make us think of Christmas merry-makings, 
lighted tapers, crackling fires, — all the pleasant 
things of the friendly winter ; for winter is not a 
foe, as some think, but a friend, and if you meet 
him kindly, a very good friend, too. Perhaps it is 
the sight of the Christmas-trees which at this time 
of the year sets little people (and big ones also) to 
thinking '"What shall I make for Christmas ? I 
want a present for mamma, and one for father, and 
something for Jack and for Ethel, something pretty, 
but not too hard for me to make. Oh, dear, how- 
few things there are which boys like, and how I 
wish some one would just come along and give me 
an idea." 

Now, knowing that several thousands of his read- 
ers are likely to be talking or thinking in this way, 
St. Nicholas has sent us " along" for this very pur- 
pose, to discuss the matter of Christmas presents, 
and give an idea of the way to make them. We 
will begin with a few easy suggestions for little tots 
of six or seven, who have but lately learned to sew, 
and will need help from older sisters to finish their 
gifts nicely. Then we will suggest some ideas a 
little more difficult, for workers of ten and twelve, 
and, lastly, some, more elaborate still, for those of 
you who are graduates of the needle, and not afraid 
to risk spoiling nice materials. Of course we can- 
not in one article mention a tenth part of the many 
things that can be made, for the world is crammed 
with pretty and ingenious devices of all sorts. Also, 
of those we do mention, some may be already famil- 

iar to many of the readers of St. Nicholas. But 
such must recollect that what is old to them will be 
new to others, and vice versa, so that it is to be 
hoped that there will be something for everybody, 
something which can be turned to account for the 
coming Christmas, with its stockings, and laden 
trees, and pretty surprises. You often will, find 
many and various articles given under one head- 
ing. Now we will begin with our first division : 

Easy Presents to be Made by Little Girls of Six 
or Seven. 

A Scent-Case for Handkerchiefs. 

For these scent-cases it will be necessary to 
buy an ounce of sachet powder (heliotrope, mille ■ 
fleur, violet, or Florentine orris-root). Cut out two 
layers of thin cotton wadding three inches square, 
sprinkle the powder between them, and tack the 
edges together. Make a little bag of blue or crim- 
son silk of the same size, run it round the edges, 
leaving one end open ; tack the scented wadding 
smoothly in, and sew the open end over and over. 
Trim around the case with a narrow plaited ribbon, 
and catch it through in four or five places with tiny 
ribbon bows of the same color. 

Pretty Kettle-Holders. 

Cut some bits of an old blanket or quilt, or other 
thick material, into pieces eight inches square, and 
tack them together with strong stitches. Cover 
them with a case of scarlet flannel of the same 
size, and sew a red worsted cord round the edges, 
leaving" a loop in one corner to hang the holder 
by. The loop must not be very long. 

Ask sister to draw you the shape of a tea-kettle 
on paper ; lay this down on a piece of black cloth 
and cut the cloth neatly after the pattern. Put this 
black cloth tea-kettle on the middle of the red flan- 
nel square, and hem it down nicely. If you have 




learned to do marking letters, you might work the 
words "Polly put" in black worsted above the 
kettle, and the word " on " below it. This would 
puzzle people ; and when they found that it meant 
" Polly put the kettle on," they would laugh. 


These are easy presents, and very nice ones. 
You must cut out of soft chamois leather, two per- 
fectly round pieces an inch and a half across, and 
bind the edges neatly with narrow ribbon of any 
color you like. Fasten the circles together at the 
side with a small bow. This is all, but you will 
find that grandpapa will like it very much. It 
takes almost no room in his pocket, and is always 
at hand when he wishes to wipe his glasses, which 
he is sure to do several times a day. 

A Shaving-Paper Case. 

This is a nice thing to make for papas and grown- 
up brothers. 

For a pattern take a grape leaf, lay it down on 
card-board, draw round its edges with pencil, and 
cut the paper in the same shape. Buy half-a-dozen 
sheets of tissue-paper, red, blue, white, green and 
yellow ; fold them over four or eight times, accord- 
ing to size, lay your card-board pattern down over 
them and cut the shape round with sharp scissors. 
It is on these soft sheets of thin paper that the 
razor is to be wiped clean. Make the cover of the 
same form, in green silk, or cloth, or Japanese 
canvas. Overcast the edge, or bind it with ribbon, 
and imitate the veins of the leaf with long stitches 
of green sewing-silk. The tissue-paper grape- 
leaves are inserted between the outside leaf-covers. 
There must be a loop of ribbon at the stem end of 
the leaf to hang it up by. 

Leaf Pen-Wipers. 
The directions for making a shaving-paper case 
will enable you also to make a leaf pen-wiper, ex- 
cept that you now require a smaller leaf for your 
pattern (say an oak or a maple leaf), and you put 
leaves of black cloth instead of tissue-paper between 
the two outside leaves. These outside leaves should 
be of the color of the leaf whose pattern is chosen — 
red or yellow for maple, and brown for an oak, 
unless you prefer green. 

Wash-stand Frills. 
The materials for these pretty, useful things, are 
a yard and a quarter of plain or figured white mus- 
lin, a yard and an eighth of tape, and a yard of 
ribbon two inches wide, of any color you prefer. 
Cut the muslin into two breadths, sew them to- 
gether and make a hem two inches wide on both 
edges. Run a thread all across one end, half an 

inch below the hem ; into this put the tape, and 
draw up the frill, leaving a knot in the tape at each 
end. The ruffle is to be nailed to the wall through 
these knots, above the wash-stand, where the wall- 
paper is in danger of being spattered when persons 
are washing. Make two pretty bows of the ribbon 
and pin them over the tape-ends. You can draw 
up the lower part of the muslin piece also, if you 
wish, so as to make the top and bottom just alike. 
These frills are easy things to make, and they look 
very neat and pretty when they are on the wall. 

A Bag for Papa's Slippers. 
This bag may be made of merino or cloth or 
Java canvas (embroidered), or crochet-work lined 
with cloth of a bright color. Let it be of an oblong 
shape, just large enough to allow the slipper to go 
in and out easily ; and put a ribbon or cord loop 
at each of the top corners, so that it may be hung 
conveniently for every-day use. 


For little girls who can knit, there are few things 
nicer to make than a pair of garters. They are 
prettiest of bright scarlet or blue yarn. Set up one 
stitch on the needles, widen till you get to twenty, 
and knit regularly till the garter is twelve inches 
long. Slip ten of the stitches off on a third needle, 
and knit for twenty rows on the remaining ten, then 
take up the left-behind stitches and knit twenty 
rows on them, which forms a loop. Slip all the 
stitches again off on one needle, knit twenty rows 
and bind off. These garters are also pretty knit 
with fine white tidy-cotton, bound all round with 
narrow red ribbon. Many persons prefer them to 
any other kind. 

Pen-Wiper made of Baby's Shoe. 

Take a baby's shoe of red kid. Then cut out 
four round pieces of black cloth, each three inches 
in diameter ; pink the edges, fold and fasten them 
together as described in paragraph headed " Bead 
Pen-wipers," and push the pointed ends into the 
toe part of the shoe, so that the pinked edges of 
the cloth may project at the top. One pair of baby's 
shoes (price forty cents) will make two of these 
pen-wipers. Papa would be glad to have one on 
his library-table. 

Now we pass to our second division : 

Things which can be Made by Girls from Ten to 
Fourteen who are expert with their needles. 

We will begin with a novel and pretty needle- 
book, for the idea of which we are indebted to Mrs. 
Annie Phoebus, who has suggested other ingenious 
devices in fancy-work for St. Nicholas : 




A Wheelbarrow Needle-book and Pin- 

The needle-book from which this illustration is 
copied was made of lead-colored merino. By the 
by, girls, we would recommend you to save all the 


scraps of prettily colored merino, flannel and silk 
that may happen to fall in your way. They are 
sure to prove useful. And, another hint, lay aside 
all the old postal-cards, instead of tossing them into 
the waste basket. You will find them much better 
for lining purposes than stiff paper. 

Here are diagrams which show the parts of the 
wheelbarrow needle-book. A is the bottom. Cut 
it out in pasteboard, and as each part is double 
you must cut out two of each. Cover both parts 
smoothly with merino, turn the edges in, basting 
them down firmly ; lay them together and over- 
seam them all round. B is the shape for the sides. 


They must be covered exactly like the bottom ; 

1 only, as there are two sides to a wheelbarrow, you 

will require four pieces of pasteboard. C is the 

back. When the parts are all covered, join them 

Handle , 

an inch in diameter and cover them like the others, 
making an awl-hole in the middle of each for the 
wire on which the wheels arc hung. This wire 
must be covered wire, of the kind which milliners 


use in bonnets. Half a yard will be needed, and 
it must be bent as in the diagram D. 

First allow an inch for the handle. Then bend 
the wire down and up for the front leg. Next 
extend it the length of the barrow, stitching it 
firmly into place. At the corner bend down and 
up again for one back leg, allow two inches for the 
wheel, thread the wheel upon it, bend the second 


back leg, and return along the other side of the 
barrow, forming leg and handle as before. 

Lastly, cut out three small leaves of flannel, but- 
ton-hole them round the edges or point with a 
scissors, and fasten them on the back at 1 . The 
pins are stuck in across the front between the 
rounds of pasteboard, and a thimble-case and small 
pair of scissors may form the load of the wheel- 
barrow, which will then be complete. 

Sand-Bag Cases. 
A useful footstool for grandmamma, especially 
in sickness, or when she drives out on a cold day, 


together, being guided by the figures on the dia- is a bag, twelve inches square, filled with sand. 

grams : I to 1, 2 to 2, etc. This can be heated in the oven, and will retain its 

For the wheels, cut two rounds of pasteboard warmth fcr hours. Make it of strong unbleached 




sheeting. Then make a slip-cover of bright-colored 
rep or merino, bordered with fringe or a ruffling of 
the same ; or you may embroider a canvas cover, 


if you please. One side of this case should be left 
open, so that the bag of sand (or salt) can easily be 
slipped out when it is to be heated, and secured in 
its place again, by means of loops and buttons, 
when it is taken out of the oven. 

A Doll's Sleigh. 

The material of the sleigh is very thick white 
card-board. Below is a diagram of it before it is 
put together. 

The black lines indicate the place where the card- 
board is to be cut through. The dotted lines show 
where the penknife must only half cut through the 
board, so that it may bend easily. The parts 
marked up are all to be turned in one direction. 
They make the back, front and sides of the sleigh 
body. The parts marked down must be turned in 
the opposite direction, to form the runners. Lap 
the corners marked respectively AA, BB, CC, DD, a 
little, and fasten them with a small brass manu- 

hoop petticoat. If the runners do not stand firmly, 
stay them with pasteboard, which can be neatly 
pasted on. 

The sleigh will be prettier if you paint bands of 
bright color around it with a camel's-hair pencil 
and water paints. You can easily put a little 
cushioned seat inside, if you wish. 

Bead Pen'-Wipers. 
These are made of black broadcloth. Cut 
eighteen small circles, a little larger than a silver 
dollar. Overcast the edge of each with long 
stitches of sewing-silk, and upon each stitch thread 
eight beads of any color you like. Blue, green 
and opal beads are preferable to gilt or silver, 
because these tarnish. When the circles are 
trimmed, bend each into half, and then into half 
again (see diagram), and fasten all together at the 
points a, so as to form a ball with the beaded 
edges outside. You will find this pretty pen-wiper 


script clip, such as you can buy at any stationer's 
shop ; or, if you like, take the clamps from an old 


precisely the thing to lay on papa's writing-table 
as a Christmas surprise. 

Brush-and-Comb Bags of White Dimity. 

The materials required for these bags are half a 
yard of dimity or pique, and a white cotton cord 
and tassel. Cut the stuff into two pieces, nine 
inches wide. One should be eleven inches long 
and the other fifteen. Shape one end of the 
longer piece into a point like the flap of a pocket- 
book. Sew the two pieces together with a strong 
seam, leaving the end with a flap open, and trim 
all round with the cord, passing it across so as to 
leave a tassel on either side, and form a double 
loop by which to hang the bag. An embroidered 
monogram or initials in scarlet will add to the pret- 
tiness of the effect, and the whole can be thrown 
into the common wash and done up as often as 
desired, which is an advantage always in the case 
of articles used on journeys. 

Other useful fancy articles can be made of white 
dimity ; a set of table-mats, round or oval, of four 
or six different sizes, each scalloped around the 
edge with linen floss or colored worsted ; or wash- 
stand-mats or tray-covers, scalloped in the same 
way ; or square flat cases for papa's cuffs. 

i8 7 S.] 



Little Glass-lined Hanging-Baskets. 

When goblets or wine glasses break at the stem, 
as they usually do, the tops can be put to use for 
hanging-baskets, as shown in these pictures. 

Crochet a cover to fit the glass, in silk or worst- 
ed, with long crochet stitch, and a little looped or 
pointed border. This will not be a difficult thing 



to do for any of you who arc practiced in simple 
crochet. Make a small scalloped circle for the 


bottom, and fasten on three ball-tassels of the 
worsted. Hang with cords, or with balls strung on 
cord, as in No. I. Then fill the glass with water 
or wet moss, and stick in tiny ferns or flowers, and 
you will have a very pretty effect at small trouble 
and almost no expense. 

Wash-stand Mats. 

Almost the most useful things in crochet are 
mats for wash-stands, and any girl who understands 
common and long crochet can make them. Two 
balls of white tidy-cotton, No. 8, will make a set. 
There should be a large round mat for the wash- 
bowl to stand upon, a small one for the little 
pitcher, one smaller yet for the mug, and two, 
either round or oval, for the soap-dish and brush- 
tray. Set up a chain of five stitches, loop it, and 
crochet round, widening enough to keep it flat. 
When the mat is large enough, finish with a 
border of loops, in three rows of long crochet, 
arranged in groups with a dividing loop. The 
first row should have three stitches in a group, the 
second four, and the third five. The mats must 
be " done up," whitened, and starched stiff. 


Table-mats crocheted in a similar manner, of 
white tidy-cotton, make excellent and useful pres- 
ents. They are improved by being crocheted over 
lamp-wicking, which makes them doubly thick. 
The set consists of two large oval mats for the 
meat-platters, and four smaller ones for vegetable 




dishes. An initial, embroidered in scarlet cotton in 
the middle of each mat, makes them prettier. 
They should be starched very stiff. 

Madeira-Nut Scent-Cases. 

For these bright little affairs two large fair 
Madeira-nuts or English walnuts are required. 
Halve them carefully by forcing the points of 
your scissors into the soft end. Scrape the inside 
perfectly clean, heat a hair-pin red-hot in a candle- 
blaze or gas-jet, and with it bore two small holes 
opposite each other at each end of the shell ; var- 
nish with gum shellac dissolved in alcohol, then set 
them in a warm place till perfectly dry. Make a 
bright-colored silk bag three inches and a half 
square, with a hem at one end and a place for a 
drawing-string. Sew on the nuts, at equal dis- 
tances, a little way above the unhemmed end ; run 
a thread round that edge, draw it up tight, and 
finish with a little bow. Form the other end into 
a bag by running a narrow ribbon into a drawing 
hem. Last of all, set a tiny bow at the top of each 
shell, and fill the bag with cotton-wool sprinkled 
thickly with sachet-powder. 

A tiny glove or bon-bon case can be made by 
using two half shells of a Madeira-nut, treated in a 
similar manner, piercing them with holes in the 
middle as well as top, and tying them together 
with very narrow colored ribbon. Of course they 


hold only a very small pair of gloves. They are 
pretty objects to hang upon a Christmas-tree. 

Madeira-Shell Boats. 
These are very pretty for Christmas-trees, and 
they delight little folks. Take a half shell, glue a 
slender mast in it, and put in a sail of gilt or silver 
paper. They will sail nicely. 

Bureau Mats and Covers. 

Three-quarters of a yard of white Java canvas 
will make four of these mats. Cut it into halves, 
and one of these halves into three small squares. 
Leave a margin all round to be raveled out for a 
fringe, and work just above this margin a simple 
border pattern in worsted, of any color you please 
— blue, rose, or crimson. The three smaller mats 
will hold the pincushion and toilet bottles, and the 
long one is laid across the front of the bureau, to 
receive brushes, combs and hair-pins. 

If you wish, you can easily make a cover to 
match, for laying over the top of a pincushion. 
This may have the additional ornament of a mono- 
gram, or initials, embroidered in the center. Pretty 
border and initial patterns can be bought at a low 
price, if you have no designs at hand. 

Glove Pen-Wipers. 

Cut a paper pattern of a tiny glove and of a 
little gauntlet-cuff to correspond. Cut the glove 
pattern out in thick cloth, and the gauntlet-cuff in 
thinner cloth, and line the latter with bright silk. 
Stitch the cuff to the glove with silk of the same 
color as the lining, and also make three rows of 
stitches on the back of the glove to imitate those 
in real gloves. Lastly cut out three or four pieces 
of cloth like the gauntlet, over-hand or point the 
edges with a scissors, and fasten them to the glove 
in under the gauntlet, to form the pen-wiper. 
This is a tidy little affair for a portfolio or traveling 

A Parasol Pen-Wiper. 

A very pretty pen-wiper can be made in the form 
of a closed parasol. Sharpen a thin wooden lead 
pencil that has an ivory tip. Cut a circle of silk, 
arid another, somewhat smaller, of thin black cloth. 
Point or scallop the edges all around, pierce a hole 
in the center of each circle and run the point of 
the pencil through, leaving the silk circle on top. 
By a little ingenuity you can now crease, fold and 
secure these circles close to the handle, so that the 
whole will look precisely like a closed parasol ; by 
experimenting first with a piece of paper you can 
best get the size of the circle required to suit your 

A Pansy Pincushion. 

For this pincushion you will require a small bit 
of bright yellow silk, and another bit of deep pur- 
ple velvet or silk. Cut the shape in pasteboard 
twice over, and cover each side with the silk, the 
upper half (a) being the purple, and the lower (b) 
the yellow. The purple silk must be lapped under 
a good way, so that the stitches may not part and 
show the seam. Overseam the edges together, 




leaving a small open space, and stuff the cushion 
full of worsted, ramming down to make it as hard 
and firm as possible. The outside is ornamented 
with stitches of black and yellow silks, which can 
be varied to taste. In the illustration, CC, are long 
stitches in yellow floss ; D is a diamond-shaped 


group of black stitches, crossed at E with white 
floss, and F are long black stitches, three on each 
side. Some people add a tiny black velvet tip to 
the lower leaf of the pansy. There is an oppor- 
tunity for displaying taste in the arrangement of 
these stitches. Better than to follow any descrip- 
tion would be to take a real pansy, study it well, 
and arrange the stitches to imitate the flower as 
closely as possible. 

The materials for these work-cases are, a piece 
of yellow or gray Japanese canvas, twelve inches 
long and seven broad ; a bit of silk of the same size 
and color for lining, and six skeins of worsted, of 
any shade which you happen to fancy. 
, Work a border down both sides of the canvas 
and across one end, leaving space to turn the edge 
of the material neatly in. This border may be as 
simple as you please. Four rows of cross-stitch in 
blue or cherry will answer for little girls not versed 
in embroidery. When the border is done, baste on 
the lining, turn the edges neatly in, and sew over 
and over. Then turn the lower third of this lined 
strip up to form a bag, and sew the edges together 
firmly. The embroidered end folds over to form a 
flap like a pocket-book, and must have two small 
buttons and loops to fasten it down. 

These are nice presents to make for grandpapas 
and grandmammas. Cut out apiece of card-board 

a little longer than the spectacles are when shut 
up, and of the shape which you see in the picture. 
Then cut another piece an inch shorter than the 
other and one-third wider. At the lower end of 
this second piece, cut three slits an inch and a half 
long, lap them, baste firmly, and trim off so as to 
make the end fit to the bottom of the back-piece. 
Cover both pieces with kid, velvet, silk, chamois 
leather, or Java canvas, and ornament with floss 
silk, beads, or embroidery braid. Lastly, sew the 
two pieces together at sides and bottom, stitch a 
fine cord round the edge, and your case is done. 
The front-piece, being a little wider, will stand out 
from the back just enough to allow the spectacles to 
slide in and out easily. For grandma, it may be 
well to have a long loop of ribbon attached to each 
top corner of the case so that she may hang it from 
her belt. 

Articles in Birch-Bark. 
For those of you who have spent your Sum- 
mer in the country, and brought home a store of 
birch-bark, there are numberless pretty things to 
make. Handkerchief-cases, scissor-cases, glove- 
cases, spectacle-cases, wall-baskets, watch-pockets, 
toilet-boxes, table-mats, portfolios, book-marks, 
napkin-rings, needle-cases, — I cannot enumerate 
half. The rules for making one apply to nearly 
all. The shape of the article chosen is cut out in 
stiff pasteboard ; the bark, made very thin and 
smooth, is cut to match, and divided into long nar- ■ 


row strips of equal width, attached to each other at 
one end, which is left uncut for' a short distance. 
These strips are braided in and out with ribbon of 
any chosen shade, each end of the ribbon being 
carefully fastened down. When the braiding is 




thus secured to the pattern, the whole is lined with 
silk, and the edges are trimmed with plaited ribbon 
or narrow silk cord. The glove and mouchoir cases 
are made square, and the corners are bent over to 
the middle and tied with ribbons. A little scent-bag 
is laid in each. Birch-bark articles can also be 
made by simply covering the card-board pattern 
with a plain piece of bark and binding the edges 
with ribbon or velvet. 

The Circle-Fly. 

For this amusing toy, suggested by Miss Don- 
levy, the following materials are needed. Four 
feathers, a long cork, half a yard of wire, two square 
inches of gilt paper, two black beads, some red or 
yellow sewing-silk, a couple of bits of card-board, a 
wooden spool, four round pieces of tin with a hole 
in the middle, a piece of red sealing-wax, and a 
small quantity of gum arabic. 

The body of the circle-fly is made of the cork, 
and it is into this that the long wire is fastened. 


The horns are short bits of wire fastened securely 
into the head, and tipped with sealing-wax. The 
black beads form the eyes ; they are sewed into the 
cork head. Wind red or yellow sewing-silk round 
the body at regular intervals to form ornamental 
stripes, as seen in the picture. For the wings, cut 
out four pieces of pasteboard, two of white paper 
and two of gilt paper. Put each feather between 
two pieces of pasteboard, and glue with thick melted 
gum arabic. When perfectly dry, cover each paste- 
board on one side with gilt paper. When this is 
dry, cover the other side of each with white paper. 
After the wings are for the second time perfectly 
dry, sew over the edges of the pasteboard part of 
the wings with colored silk, which will both orna- 
ment and strengthen them. To fasten the wings, 
run a wire not quite two inches long into the cork 
body, slip on each end one of the round pieces of 
tin, and bend the wire so that it stands perpendicu- 
lar to the body. The bend must be half an inch 
high. Now give the wire another bend, making it 
parallel to the body, run it through the pasteboard 
part of the wing, put another round piece of tin on 
the outer side, and fasten by bending the wire over 

the tin. Whittle the wooden spool down till it is 
quite thin, run the wire through its middle and 
bend as in the picture, to form a handle. The wire 
must end by a round bend to hold the spool in 

As its name suggests, the circle-fly flies only in a 
circle, but it flies so fast that it will amuse a nursery 
full of little folks for a long time. 

Now we will begin our third division : 

Christmas Presents a little more elaborate in con- 
struction, which can be made by Girls from 
Fourteen and upward, who are skillful with 
their needles. 

Various Articles to be made in Varnished 

Pen-trays, wall-pockets, traveling-satchels, cases 
for holding rolls of music, flower-pot holders, and 
a great many other pretty and useful things can 
be made from cotton crochet-work, 
stiffened with colored starch, allowed to 
dry in the desired form, and varnished 
according to the directions on next page. 
Baskets, boxes, watch-cases, chair seats 
and backs, mats, footstool-covers, when 
made in this way, are as durable as 
cane or rattan work, and infinitely more 

Crocheted Wall-Shield and Sponge- 

Of which we wish more particularly to speak, are 
intended to be placed over a wash-stand. The 
shield is oblong in shape, as wide as the stand, and 
has a pointed top. The pockets, of which there 
are two, one for sponges, and the other for nail- 
brush, tooth-brush, etc., hang against the wall at 
either end of the shield. If an open pattern is 
selected for the shield, it will be pretty to line it 
with a bit of bright-colored silk or cambric. The 
front of the pocket is crocheted separately from the 
back, starched, and dried over a wooden form. 
The end of a wooden molding-dish, such as is used 
in butter-making, answers this purpose admirably. 
The form must be laid face down on a soft pine 
board, so that the crocheted piece may be stretched 
over it and pinned evenly to the board all round. 
When dry it is sewed to the back-piece and var- 
nished. The back may be lined with oiled cloth 
or silk, if desired, but the meshes of the front-piece 
should be left open to secure ventilation for any 
wet article placed inside the pocket. The edges 
of these articles can readily be crocheted in points 
or fancy scallops. If desired, the sponge-pockets 
may be made directly on the wall-shield. 

>8 7 5-; 



The method of treatment is the same for all 
articles : the covering is crocheted in strong white 
tidy-cotton, a size smaller than the thing to be 
covered, so as to admit of stretching tightly. A 
monogram or other ornament is then worked on 
the cover, which is stretched over its frame and 
secured ; a coating of thick boiled starch is rubbed 
in, and when this is dry another coating is applied. 
Lastly, the whole is treated to a coat of shellac 
varnish, which, used over white cotton, gives a tint 
like cane or bamboo ; if a darker color is desired, 
the starch is boiled with strained coffee instead of 
water. A basket made in this manner will out- 
wear two ordinary straw ones, and there is this 
advantage, that if at any time a portion of the work 
is worn through or cut, it can be softened with 
alcohol, mended with tidy-cotton, and stiffened 
and varnished as before. 

A New Sofa-Cushion Cover. 

The materials required for this cushion are, half 
a yard of fine white silk canvas, a yard and a half 
of thick satin ribbon three inches wide, blue or rose 
colored, a few skeins of floss silk, and a silk cord 
and tassels. 

Cut the ribbon into three pieces, to be basted 
at equal distances on the canvas, one in the middle, 
the others at either side half way between the mid- 
dle and the edge. Feather stitch the ribbon down 
on both sides with pale yellow floss. In the spaces 
left between the ribbon stripes, embroider a grace- 
ful little pattern in flosses which harmonize with 
the shade of the ribbon. Make up the cushion 
with a lining of plain silk or satin, and trim the 
edge with the cord and tassels. 

This is an easy cushion to make, but the effect 
is really charming, and we recommend some of 
you to try it. The cushion from which our descrip- 
tion is taken comes from England, and we have 
never seen a similar one in this country. Black 
satin ribbon and brilliant embroidery would be an 
effective combination. 

Open-work Brackets Made from Cigar- 
Here is a Christmas present which either a boy 
or girl can make. All the materials needed are 
. paper patterns of the forms to be used (which can 
be obtained from almost any carved open-work 
bracket), a sharp penknife, and an old cigar-box. 
The paper patterns must be pasted or gummed to 
, the wood, so that the lines may be closely followed 
and cut through by the knife, leaving the desired 
open-work shapes. Then the paper can be soaked 
, off with a damp sponge. If the bracket is only 
meant to hold light articles, the parts can be. glued 

together merely, but it is better still to use the 
small brads which you will find in the sides of the 
cigar-box. When it is done, rub it with boiled 
linseed oil, or, if you prefer, coat with shellac var- 

Ornamental Cigar-Boxes. 

A pretty box can be made by cutting open-work 
designs (as described above) on the separated parts 
of a cigar-box ; then putting them together as be- 
fore, varnishing them, and lining the open-work 
sides and cover with bright-colored silk or paper. 

A Straw Wall-Basket. 

This basket is made of straw and ribbon. Choose 
a number of perfectly smooth fair straws. Cut in 
pasteboard a half-circle, nine inches in diameter, 
and with a stiletto or pinking-punch make a series 
of small holes round the edge, half an inch apart. 
Measure a strip of pasteboard a little less than half 


an inch wide, and nine inches long, and pierce it 
regularly with holes of the same size, making them 
one inch apart. Take a second strip of the same 
width, sixteen inches long, and repeat the process. 
Now measure a straw twelve inches in length, and 
insert one end into the middle hole of the shorter 
strip, and the other end into the middle hole of the 
straight side of the half-circle (which forms the bot- 
tom of the basket), letting the lower edge of the 
straw project about two inches below the bottom 
of the circle. On either side of this insert a straw 
three-quarters of an inch shorter, and so proceed 
till the holes are filled and all the straws of the 
pointed back in position. The holes must be small 
enough to hold the straws firmly in place without 
any stitches. Next cut a number of straws six 

I 12 



inches in length, and insert them into the longer 
strip of pasteboard, slipping the lower ends through 
the holes in the round of the half-circle, and fast- 
ening the two ends of the pasteboard strip firmly 
to the back-strip. Cover the edges of the bottom 
and top circles with blue chenille, and lace blue 
ribbon in and out among the straw of the front- 
piece to form the basket. Tack it firmly to the 
wall at either end, and fasten a bow of blue ribbon 


to the midddle of the back near the top. This is 
a graceful and novel wall-basket, and looks very 
pretty when heaped up with Berlin wools and other 
light articles, for which it serves as a catch-all. 

The first essential for successful spatter-work is a 
graceful pattern. To secure this, you must select 
and carefully press all manner of tiny leaves and 




ferns, bits of strawberry vine, ivy sprays, and other 
wood treasures. For further materials you will 
want Bristol board, India-ink, a fine-toothed comb, 
a tooth-brush, some small pins, a tack-hammer, 
and a smooth board on which to fasten your paper 
while at work. 

After the paper is firmly pinned to the board, 
lay your pattern upon it — the cross or basket form, 
if either is used, in the center — the leaves and ferns 
grouped about it, and pin each down very carefully, 
so that the ink may not spatter under them. 

Put a table-spoonful of water into a small saucer, 
and rub India ink in it till the mixture is thick as 
cream. If you like a design in purple, the best 
violet ink can be substituted for this with good 
effect. Dip the tooth-brush (which should be one 
with long stiff bristles), lightly into the ink, and, 
holding it over the paper, rub it gently with the 
comb, so as to send out a fine spray of ink. Some 
persons reverse this process, and, dipping the comb 
into the ink, pass the brush over it to produce the 
same result. This is gradually repeated till the 
background is shaded to your wishes. Some parts 
are made darker than the rest to give the idea of 
perspective, but be careful not to make them too 
dark, as the ink will appear much blacker when dry. 

Take the pins out carefully, and remove the- 
leaves. The space beneath will now appear in 
white on a gray background. Now begins the 
artistic part of the performance, for the leaves must 
be veined with a camel's-hair brush, and lightly 
shaded here and there, and the central ornament 
must also be shaded in spatter-work, to give it 
roundness and effect. When all is done, and the 
ink perfectly dry, iron the paper on the wrong side 
with a slightly warmed iron. 

A great many beautiful things can be contrived 
with this spatter-work. Wall-baskets, portfolios, 
glove and handkerchief cases, cigar-stands, and so 
on, cut from Bristol board, spattered, lined with 
silk and bound with narrow ribbons, are extremely 
pretty. Tidies, mats, aprons, hanging side-pockets, 
pillow-covers, and cushion-covers of Swiss muslin, 
spattered with a graceful pattern, are certainly 
"lovely." And, a newer idea still, we have lately 
seen work-boxes, table-tops, book-covers and paper- 
knives in white holly wood, spattered with very dark 
brown (burnt umber being used instead of ink), 
and highly varnished, which had a really beautiful 
appearance, the. varnish changing the light parts of 
the wood to a pale yellow which precisely har- 
monized with the rich brown of the background. 

A New Effect in Knitting. 
One of the knitting novelties of the season is the 
use of alternate rows of double zephyr and of 
Shetland and split zephyr worsteds, using common 

Vol.. III. -8. 

garter stitch and large needles. It is effective for 
hoods, nubes, baby cloaks, affghans for cribs, and 
other articles of that kind. 


There are few choicer presents than a cover for 
a friend's favorite Bible. The material for these 
covers is soft chamois leather, cut exactly the size 
of the open Bible, with a narrow piece sewed on at 
each end to fold under, and so hold the cover. 
Snip the larger piece all round into minute points. 
Stitch the end-pieces on wrong side out, a little 
way from edge, and turn over, leaving the points 
on big piece to project and form an edge. A 
monogram, or any appropriate motto, may be em- 
broidered in the middle. These covers are simple 
things, but they require exquisite sewing and fitting 

These are not necessarily Christmas gifts, but if 
any friend happens to be taking a voyage in win- 
ter, a cabin bag is the very thing, for no lady 
traveler can be really comfortable at sea without 
one. They are made of linen or crash or chintz, 
after the manner of shoe-bags, with a row of pock- 
ets below and another above, st tched to a stout 
back-piece, bound round with braid, and furnished 
with loops to hang up by, and a small square pin- 
cushion in the middle of the top. They should be 
nailed firmly to the wall of the state-room within 
reach of the sofa or berth, and are invaluable for 
holding handkerchiefs, brushes, hair-pins, watch, 
and the thousand and one little things which, with- 
out such a place of refuge, are soon hopelessly 
shaken together and lost in the confused tumble 
and toss of a voyage. 

Scent-Cases for Trunks. 
Another gift for a traveler is a large silk or 
muslin case made to fit the top of her trunk, and 
quilted with orris-root or sachet-powder. Clothing 
kept for a long time in trunks is apt to con- 
tract a smell of leather, and this daintily scented 
cover, which tucks in all round, will be more and 
more appreciated as time goes on, by the friend to 
whom you present it. Some persons do not like 
perfumes of any kind, and these may prefer the 
smell of leather to that of sachet-powder. Beware 
of presenting a scent-case to them. 

Table and Chair Covers of Stamped Linen. 

These covers are made of that coarse gray linen 
which is bought for kitchen table-cloths. One of 
the best patterns to choose is that very common 
one which is lined off into diamonds with a star in 
the middle of each diamond. Divide these stars 




into groups of four, six, or eight, and work each 
star over with Berlin worsted of a different color, 
taking care that your colors harmonize with each 
other and make a good general effect. When all 
the stars are embroidered, sew narrow black velvet 
ribbon over the lines which form the diamonds. 
If for a table-cover, trim the edge with a row of 
black velvet ribbon, a fringe or a cord with tassels 
in the corners. 

Inlaid Embroidery. 

Many pretty and useful articles, such as pin- 
cushions, tidies, watch-cases, flower-pot covers, 

once learned, it becomes hard to look at the trees 
any longer as trees; they seem, instead, repositories 
of easels, picture-frames, and other dainty devices, 
and we go out, scissors in hand, with all the confi- 
dence with which we enter a shop to order what is 
wanted. No initiated person, however, will ever 
cut the wood recklessly ; that would be killing the 
golden goose indeed. No, the pieces chosen, which 
are from three to eighteen inches long, should be 
taken from the leaders or latest growth of the 
branches ; judicious pruning will rather benefit the 
tree than injure it. 

The wood obtained, it is to be heated a little, to 

table-mats, floor-mats, wall-shields, screens, brush- 
and-comb bags, skate-bags, and school-satchels, 
can be made of gray crash, with fancy bits of col- 
ored cloth laid on and neatly secured around the 
edge by herring-bone stitch. Canvas may be thus 
" inlaid" with bright velvets, and the intervening 
spaces filled with gray, white or black cross-stitch. 

Ornamental Work in Norway Spruce. 

Any one lucky enough to possess a large Norway 
spruce-tree, or more than one, has material at hand 
for a host of pretty objects which will be just the 
thing for Christmas presents. When this secret is 

dry it quickly, and then with a dull knife scraped 
clean of its leaves (in the direction of the foliage), 
taking care not to destroy the wood-buds. For 
other materials you will need glue, a varnishing 
brush, a little copper wire, penknife, tack-hammer, 
and a scissors or pliers for cutting the wire. Flat 
pieces of soft pine board are also needed, on which 
the whole can be laid and pinned into shape ; also 
bracket frames of pine formed like a T, with a 
shelf top. These brackets can be made of half a 
salt-box lid covered with spruce sticks, with a back 
and front of fanciful lattice-work, meeting in a 
cluster of leaf-buds at the bottom of the T. 



ll 5 


The desired size and shape of the frame must be 
penciled on the board, so that the work may be 


perfectly true and even. Then the wood is ar- 
ranged, guided by the drawing, till the general 
outline is complete, and glued with tiny drops care- 
fully applied, or pinned deftly with tiny tape-pins. 
The outline being perfect, it is enriched with small 
twigs and clusters of wood-buds glued, or, better 
still, pinned, here and there, in places which need 
ornament or shaping. When the glue is stiff, dis- 
engage the frame from the board by inserting a 
paper-cutter between them, and, pushing the heads 
of the pins well in, cut off all the points projecting 
through at the back with a pair of scissors. Next, 
laying the frame face down, fasten an extra spruce 
stick all round, to give stiffness to the back ; and 


' lastly, varnish the whole with gum-shellac varnish, 
which gives a soft and firm luster to the wood, 
preferable to the shiny effect of other varnish. 


Easels are constructed in very much the same 
way as the frames, using a penciled diagram as a 
guide in forming the parts, and taking care that 
the projecting ledge on which the picture rests is 
straight and firm. The bands and hinges are of 
copper wire, which matches the color of the spruce. 

Spruce-wood Wall- Pocket. 

The directions already given for spruce-wooo. 
work will suffice for making this wall-pocket. It 
should have a high arched back, and a portfolio 
pocket as wide as the back, and reaching half way 
up, lined with crimson silk or satin. This article 
has a beautiful effect when hung on the wall. 


Use the picture as a guide. A square of paste- 
board braces the back. The frame of the box is 


made of pasteboard or of wood. This is fancifully 
covered with spruce sticks. An interlining of 
bright silk improves the effect. 

Pasteboard cuff-boxes, covered with gay silk and 
ornamented with spruce-work, make pretty cigar- 

A Word about " Phantom Flowers." 

Summer is the harvest-time with phantom flower 
makers, but even at this late season some leaves 




and flowers can be found adapted for the purpose, 
and for the benefit of those who are desirous of 
trying their hand at this pretty manufacture, we 
will mention a method of getting rid of the leaf 
tissues without the long delay and disagreeable 
details of the usual process. The green leaves 
and seed vessels are laid upon small sheets of tin 
and covered tightly with lace or thin muslin. 
These are placed in a vessel of cold water, and 
allowed to boil slowly for several hours. When 
taken out, the upper sheet of tin is removed, and 
the leaves are deprived of their tissues by means 
of a fine camel's-hair brush, after which they are 
bleached, wired and mounted in the usual manner. 
Any one desirous of a full description of the 
science of desiccating leaves and plants, will find it 
in "A Treatise on the Art of Producing Phantom 
Flowers," published by Tilton & Co. of Boston. 

Embroidered Work-Cases. 

These are of the same size and shape as the 
simple work-case described in the earlier part of 
this article. The stitch used is the double cross 
stitch, which takes up four threads of the canvas. 
Work a row in pale tinted worsted, blue, rose or 
pearl, round three sides of the canvas, leaving one 
end plain, and a second row sixteen threads from 
the first one. Between these rows work in clear 
glass beads a Grecian pattern, filling in with worst- 
ed. There must be two lines of beads, to corre- 
spond with the double stitch which occupies that 
space on the canvas. Fill the middle with an 
alternate stitch of worsted, little squares containing 
four beads each, line with silk, fold the pocket, 
sew on the edges over and over, threading a bead 
on each stitch, and fasten with silk loops and two 
small clear glass buttons. 

White or yellow Turkish toweling is the material 
for these bags. They are made in four pieces, 
each a foot long, pointed at top and bottom, and 
slightly curved toward the middle on both sides. 
The pieces are embroidered in silk or worsted with 
some simple pattern in bright colors, bound with 
narrow ribbon to match, and sewed together with 
a tassel to finish the bottom, and a drawing ribbon 
at the top. They are convenient little articles to 
hang on the back of a chair and receive an old 
lady's knitting when she lays it aside. 


These are made like any other apron, secured 

with a band around the waist, except that it is cut 

about ten inches longer. This extra ten inches of 

length is to be turned up from the bottom and 

divided off by stitching, so as to form four or more 
oblong pockets, open at the top. These pockets 
are handy for holding balls of worsted, and pat- 
terns, and the unfinished work in hand. 

Articles made of Cocoa-nut Shells. 

Boys with sharp knives, and a fair amount of 
good taste and ingenuity, can make very nice 
presents out of smoothed cocoa-nut shells. Three- 
quarter shells, supported on legs of rustic-work, 
and pierced with a few small holes at the bottom, 
make very pretty flower-pots ; water-pails with 
wire handles, baskets with twisted grape-vine han- 
dles, card-receivers' on rustic standards — all are 
very pretty. With sister's aid, bright silk or satin 
secured to the inside of the shell, and projecting a 
few inches beyond the opening, may be shirred 
with a drawing-string at the top, forming a pretty 

These cocoa-nut shell articles should be oiled, or 
have a coating of shellac varnish. 

St. Nicholas already has given hints and direc- 
tions for making things which would serve ad- 
mirably as Christmas presents for young friends. 
Among these we may refer to : 

Christmas City (how to make a card-board 
city). Vol. I., p. 405. 

Wood-Carving, Vol. I., pp. 84, 215, 346, 592. 

Holiday Harbor (giving directions for making 
mimic public buildings and vessels of pasteboard), 
December number of Vol. II., p. 112. 

East Indian Toys — baby-doll, lady-doll, and 
cow (telling how to make them), November num- 
ber of Vol. II., p. 52. 

Turtle Cloves, Letter-Box for January, Vol. 
II., p. 196. 

A Pretty Easel for Photographs, Letter- 
Box for April, Vol. II., p. 389. 

And now we must bring this long chapter to a 
close, with St. Nicholas' compliments, and the 
hope that some of his girls, and boys too for that 
matter, who have been puzzling their heads over 
Christmas presents,, may find just what they want 
in it. More than a hundred useful and tasteful 
articles can be made from the suggestions given. 
A good deal of work and a good deal of care are 
required for the making of anything really pretty. 
But remember, dears, that these gifts, into which 
love, thought, and patience are wrought with in- 
numerable fine stitches or touches, will be worth 
more to the friends who care for you, a dozen times 
over than tljc finest thing which can be bought in a 
shop, and which costs you nothing but — money. 





By J. T. Trowbridge. 

" Bless my heart ! " said Mr. Bonwig, amazed 
at the huge rollers that came tumbling in. '" How 
are we ever going to get a boat outside of them 
without swamping her ? " 

" I '11 show ye," said Joe. 

The dory was dragged down to the edge of the 
surf. Then Joe put in the guns. Then he gave 
the skiff another gentle shove, into a receding 
wave. Then he told Mr. Bonwig to get aboard. 

" I 've a wife and children at home ! " murmured 
that affectionate husband and father. " If any- 
thing should happen ! " 

"What in sixty ye think is goin' to happen?" 
cried Joe, impatiently. 

" I am very heavy ! " said Augustus. 

"So much the better; you'll make splendid 
ballast," grinned Joe. 

" You are going, too ? " 

" Of course I am ; I ha'nt got no wife and chil- 
dren — not much ! " 

There was something in Joe that inspired confi- 
dence, and Mr. Bonwig resolved to stand the risk. 
He seated himself in the boat. Joe stood on the 
beach, holding the bow, and waiting. The waves 
were out. 

" You never can shove me off in the world ! " 
said Mr. Bonwig, painfully conscious of his own 

" You '11 see," said Joe. The next moment the 
waves were in. A heavy swell lifted the dory, bal- 
last and all. The ballast uttered a scream, and 
made a motion as if to jump overboard. " Keep 
yer seat. All right ! " screamed Joe, pushing off. 
As the next breaker lifted the stern, he gave 
another shove, and jumped aboard. Before the 
third breaker came, he had the oars in his hands, 
ready to meet it. 

" Well, well ! " said Mr. Bonwig. " I am sur- 
prised ! " And well he might be ; for, you see, this 
embarking in the breakers is a business that calls 
for no little skill and experience ; you must take 
advantage of them, and see that they don't get the 
advantage of you. They have no mercy ; and if 
they ever strike your skiff sideways, over she goes 
in an instant, and there she rolls to and fro in the 
foaming jaws until they crunch her to pieces, un- 
less some strong hand at the right moment seizes 
and drags her out. 

Young Joe, first by skillfully pushing off, then 
by prompt management of the oars, kept the dory 

straight across the rollers, and soon had her safe 
outside of them. Then he commenced rowing 
strongly and steadily toward a rocky island, two or 
three miles off, over the ends of which the sea was 
dashing high and white. 

Mr. Bonwig was seated in the stern, which he 
freighted so heavily that the bow stuck up ludi- 
crously high out of the water. He had now quite 
recovered his equanimity. 

" Well ! I enjoy this ! " said he, and lighted a 
cigar. " How easy this boat rows ! " 

" It does, to look on," said Joe. 

" I am surprised ! " said Mr. Bonwig. " I 'd no 
idea one of these little skiffs pulled so easy ! " and 
he smoked complacently. 

" How good that cigar tastes ! " said Joe, with a 
grin. " 1 had no idee cigars tasted so good ! " 

" Young man," replied Augustus, laughing, " I 
see the force of your remark. Perhaps you think I 
might offer to row. But I want to keep my nerves 
steady for the ducks. I '11 row coming back, and 
that will be a good deal harder, for we shall have a 
load of game, you know." 

"All right," said Joe. "No. I thank ye" — as 
Bonwig offered him a cigar. " But if you happen 
to have any more of that 'ere sweet stuff about 
ye " 

" Oh, to be sure ! " and Augustus had the pleas- 
ure of filling the young man's mouth with candy. 
" What sort of ducks do we get at the island ? " 

" Coots and black ducks, mostly," said Joe (and 
I wish I could make the words sound as sweet on 
paper as they did coming from his candied lips). 
"Black ducks go along the shore to feed, when 
the tide is low. They find all sorts of little live 
things on the rocks and in the moss, and in them 
little basins the tide leaves in holler places. They 
never dive deep ; they only jest tip up, like com- 
mon ducks. But coots will feed where the water 
is thirty feet deep ; they go to the bottom, and 
pick up all sorts of insects and little critters. They 
pick young mussels off the rocks, and swaller 'em 
whole, shell and all, and grind 'em up in their 

" Do they catch fish ? " 

" No ; loons ketch fish, but ducks and coots 
don't. A loon has got short wings that help him 
swim under water, — or fly under water, for that 's 
what it is. He '11 go faster 'n some fishes. But he 
can't walk ; and he can't rise on the wing very 



| December, 

well. He has to flop along the water, against the 
wind, a little while, 'fore he can rise. He can't rise 
goin' with the wind, any more 'n a kite can ; and 
sometimes, when he lights in a small pond, he 's 
pestered to git out at all. I ketched one in Bemis's 
pond last Spring. He was just as well and spry as 
any loon ye ever see, but there was n't room for 
him to git a good start, and no wind to help him ; 
and he could n't run on the land, nor fly up from 
the land ; and there was n't any good chance to 
dive. A loon '11 go down in deep water, and like 
as not ye wont see anything more of him till 
by-'m-by he comes up a quarter of a mile off, or 
mabby ye wont never see him agin, — for he can 
swim with jest a little speck of his body out of 
water, so that it takes a perty sharp eye to git sight 
of him. But this loon in Bemis's pond could n't 
come none o' them tricks, and I jest stoned him 
till he could n't dive, then I in arter him, and 
ketched him. He was a fat feller, I tell ye ! " 

'• That 's a good loon story," observed Mr. Bon- 

" I can tell ye a better one than that," said Joe. 
" My father went a-fishin' off the end of that island 
once, and as the fish would n't bite, and the sea 
was calm, he jest put his lines out and laid down 
in the bottom of the dory, and spread a tarpaulin 
over him, and thought he 'd go to sleep. That 's a 
nice way to sleep, — have your boat at anchor, and 
it '11 rock ye like a cradle, only ye must be careful 
a storm don't come up all of a sudden and rock yc 
over. Ye can wind yer line around yer wrist, so's't 
if a cod does come and give it a yank, you '11 wake 
up. That 's the way my father did. And he 'd 
had a nice long nap. when all at oncet — yank ! 
suthin' had holt. Off went the tarpaulin, and up 
he jumped, and he thought he 'd got a whopper, 
by the way it run off with his line. But before 
he 'd begun to pull, the line slacked, as if nothin' 
was on it ; and the next minute up come a loon 
close alongside the boat, and looked at him, and 
my father looked at the loon, and thought he 
noticed suthin' queer hangin' out of his bill. Then 
the loon dove, and then my father felt a whopper 
on his line ag'in, and he began to pull, and, by 
sixty ! if he did n't pull up that loon and bring 
him into the boat ! He had dove 1 don't know 
how many fathom for the bait, and got hooked jest 
like a fish." 

" That is a good story ! " said Mr. Bonwig, who 
had a sportsman's relish for such things. " What 
makes folks say crazy as a loon ? " 

" I d'n' know," Joe replied, "without it's 'cause 
they holler so. Did n't ye never hear a loon hol- 
ler ? You 'd think 't was a crazy feller, if ye did n't 
know. 1 s'pose loonatics are named after 'em." 

''Not exactly," said Mr. Bonwig. '■'Lunatics 

are named after Luna ; that 's the Latin name for 
the moon, which affects people's brains, some- 

" I would n't give much for such brains ! " said 
Joe, contemptuously. " Moon never hurt mine 
none ! " Hence he argued that his own were of a 
superior quality. " You must have been to school 
to learn so much Latin !" he said, regarding Mr. 
Bonwig with fresh admiration. 

Augustus nodded with dignity. 

" What's the Latin for dory?" Joe asked, think- 
ing he would begin at once to acquire that useful 

Augustus was obliged to own that he did n't 
know. Thereupon Joe's admiration changed to 

" What 's the use of Latin," said he, " if ye can't 
tell the Latin for dory ? " And Mr. Bonwig was 
sorry he had not said doribus, and so have still 
retained a hold upon Joe's respect. 

•■ Why do folks say silly coot?" he asked, to 
change the subject. 

" Wal, a coot is a silly bird — jest like some 
folks," said Joe. " Sometimes you may shoot one 
out of a flock, and the rest will fly right up to you, 
or jest stay right around, till you Ve killed 'em 
all." Augustus thought he would like to fall in 
with such a flock. "There's some now!" said 
Joe. " They 're goin' to the island. The sea runs 
so, we can't shoot very well from the boat, and I 
guess we'd better land." 

Landing was easy under the lee of the island, 
and the boat was hauled up on the beach. Then 
Joe set out to guide his friend to the best point for 
getting a shot. 

" There ! " said he, stopping suddenly near the 
summit of a ledge, " ye can see 'em down there, 
about three rods from shore. Don't stir, for if they 
see us we shall lose 'em." 

" But we must get nearer than this ! " said Mr. 
Bonwig, " for even my gun wont do execution at 
this distance." 

" Don't you know? " Joe said. " They 're feed- 
in'. When you come acrost a flock of coots feedin' 
like that, you '11 notice they all dive together, and 
stay under water as much as a minute ; then they 
all come up to breathe agin. Now, when they 
dive, do as I do. There goes one down ! there 
they all go ! Now ! " cried Joe. 

He clambered over the ledge as nimbly as a lad 
could very well do, with an old " Queen's-arm " in 
each hand, and ran down rapidly toward the shore, 
off which the water-fowl were feeding. He was 
light of foot, and familiar with every rock. Not so 
Mr. Augustus Bonwig: he was very heavy of foot, 
and unacquainted with the rocks. 

" Bl-e-hess m-y-hy hea-ah-rt ! " he exclaimed, 



1I 9 

jolting his voice terribly, as he followed Joe down 
the steep, rough way. 

" Here ! quick ! " cried Joe, dropping behind 
another ledge. 

Poor Mr. Bonwig plunged like a porpoise, and 
tumbled with a groan at the boy's side. 

" Flat ! flat ! " whispered Joe. 

" I can't make myself any flatter !" panted Augus- 
tus, pressing his corpulence close to the ground. 

his feet, Joe was safe in the shelter of the rocks, 
and the birds were Coming to the surface again. 
It required no very fine eyesight to see Mr. Bon- 
wig ; he was, in fact, a quite conspicuous object, 
clumsily running down the craggy slope, with both 
arms extended, — the better to preserve his balance, 
I suppose, although they gave him the appearance 
of a man making unwieldy and futile efforts to fly. 
The coots saw him, and rose at once upon the wing. 


" I 've scraped off two buttons, and skinned my 
shins, already." 

"You a'nt quite so flat as a flapjack, be ye?" 
said Joe. "Nevermind. We 're all right." He 
peeped cautiously over the ledge, cap in hand. 
"There comes one of 'em up agin ! There they 
all come ! Now look ; be careful ! " Bonwig put 
up his head. " Next time they go down we '11 run 
for them big rocks close by the shore ; then we 
shall be near enough." 

"Is that the way you do? Well, 1 am sur- 
prised !" said Bonwig. "As your father said, it 
requires a knack." 

" There they go ! " cried Joe, and started to run. 
Augustus started too, but stumbled on some stones 
and fell. When with difficulty he had regained 

" Bang ! " " Bang ! " spoke Joe's old flint-locks, 
one after the other ; for, having fired the first as 
the flock started, he dropped that and leveled and 
fired the second, almost before the last bird had 
cleared the surface of the water. 

" Bang ! bang ! " answered Bonwig's smart two- 
barreled piece from the hill-side : and the startled 
Joe had the pleasure of hearing a shower of shot 
rattle on the rocks all around him. The enthu- 
siastic sportsman, seeing the coots rise and Joe fire, 
and thinking this his only chance at them, had let 
off his barrels at a dozen rods, as he would very 
likely have done at a quarter of a mile, so great was 
his excitement on the occasion. 

He came running down to the shore. " Hello ! 
Iiel-lo .'" said he, " I 've saved these ! look there !" 




And he pointed triumphantly at some birds which, 
sure enough, had been left behind out of the 

''By sixty !" grumbled Joe, "you come perty 
nigh savin' me .' Your shot peppered these rocks 
— I could hear 'em scatter like peas ! " 

" Do you mean to say," cried Bonwig, " that I 
didn't kill those ducks ?" 

" All I mean to say is, they are the ones I fired 
at," said Joe, " and I seen 'em turn and drop 'fore 
ever you fired. Your gun did n't carry to the water 
at all. I '11 show ye." 

Joe began to hunt, and had soon picked up a 
number of shots of the size used by his friend 

" Bless my heart ! Now I am surprised ! The 
wind must have blown them back ! " said Augus- 

"If that 's the case," muttered Joe, " I shall look 
out how I git 'tween you and the wind another 
time ! By sixty ! ye might have filled me as full 
of holes as a nutmeg-grater ! And I rather guess 
there 's nicer sounds in the world than to have two 
big charges o' shot come rattlin' about your ears 
that fashion ! " And he rubbed his ears, as if to 
make sure that they were all right. 

" Well, well, well ! " said the wondering Augus- 
tus, picking up more shot. " I am — surprised 
aint the word ; I 'm astonished ! Well, well, 
well ! " 

" You wait here." said Joe, " while 1 hurry and 
pick up them coots. There 's an eddy of wind 
takin' 'em right out to sea." 

He disappeared, and soon Mr. Bonwig saw him 
paddling around the curve of the shore in his dory. 
Having taken the coots out of the water, he brought 
them to land, and showed them to the admiring 

"Now which way ?" said the sportsman, filled 
with fresh zeal, ' ' for I 'm bound to have luck next 

" We '11 haul the dory up here, and go over on 
the other side of the island, and see what we can 
find there," said Joe. 

" What a desolate place this is ! " said Mr. Bon- 
wig, as they crossed the bleak ledges. " All rocks 
and stones ; not a tree, not a bush even ; only 
here and there a little patch of grass ! " He struck 
a schoolboy's attitude, on one of the topmost 
ledges, and began to declaim : 

"'I 'm monarch of all I survey, 

My right there is none to dispute; 
From the center all round to the sea, 
I'm lord o{ the ' 

Plenty of fowls, but there don't seem to be any 
brutes here," he commented, as he came down 
from his elevation. 

" Guess ye learnt that to school, too, did n't 
ye ? " said Joe. 

" Young friend, I did," said Augustus. And he 
proceeded to apostrophize the salt water: 

" ' Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll ! 
Ten thousand ' 

Thunder and blazes ! who 'd have thought that 


was so slippery- 

he said, finding himself 

suddenly and quite unexpectedly in a sitting post- 
ure. " Speaking of fleets, what are all those sails, 

" Fishermen. Sometimes for days you wont see 
scarcely one ; then there '11 come a mornin' with a 
fair wind, like this, and they '11 all put out of port 

" Hello ! hel-loJ" said Augustus. " Who ever 
expected to see a house on this island ? What 
little building is that ? " 

"It's one of the Humane Society's houses; 
house of refuge they call it. They have 'em scat- 
tered along the coast where ships are most likely 
to be wrecked and there's no other shelter handy." 

" Nobody lives in it, of course ?" 

" I guess not, if they can help it," said Joe. 
" But more 'n one good ship has gone to pieces on 
this island. I remember one that struck here eight 
year ago. She struck in the night, and the next 
mornin' we could see her, bows up, on the reef 
vender, where the tide had left her ; but the sea 
was so rough there was no gittin' at her in boats, 
and the next night she broke up, and the day after 
nary spar of her was to be seen, except the pieces 
of the wreck that begun to come ashore to the 
mainland, along 'ith the dead bodies. About 
half the crew was drowned ; the rest managed to 
git to the island, but there wa' n't no house here 
then, and they 'most froze to death, for it was 
Winter, and awful cold. Since then this little hut 
has been tucked in here among the focks, where 
the wind can't very well git at it, to blow it away ; 
and come when ye will, Summer or Winter, you '11 
always find straw in the bunks, and wood in the 
box, and matches in a tin case, and a barrel of 
hard bread, and a cask of fresh water. Only the 
wood and hard bread are apt to git used up perty 
close, sometimes. You see, fellers that come off 
here a-fishin' know about it, and so when they git 
hungry, they pull ashore with their fish, and come 
to the house to make a chowder. But I would n't," 
said Joe, assuming a highly moral tone, " without 
there was a barrel chock full of crackers ! For, 
s'pose a ship should be wrecked, and the crew and 
passengers should git ashore here, wet and hungry 
and cold, and should find the house, and the box 
where the wood should be, and the barrel where 
the crackers should be, and there should n't be 




neither wood nor crackers, on account of some 
plaguy fellers and their chowder ! No, by sixty ! " 
said Joe, " I would n't be so mean ! " 

" It looks naked and gloomy enough in here ! " 
said Augustus, as they entered. 

" It would n't seem so bad, though, to wet and 
hungry sailors, some wild night in Janevvary, after 
they 'd been cast away," said Joe. " Just imagine 
'em crawlin' in here out of the rain and cold, and 
startin' up a good, nice fire in the chimbly, and 
settin' down afore it, eatin' the crackers ! " 

" How are the provisions supplied ? " 

' ; Oh, one of the Humane Society's boats comes 
around here once in a while, and leaves things. I 

don't believe but what it would be fun to live here," 
Joe added, romantically, " like Robinson Crusoe 
and his Man Friday." 

" Suppose we try it ? " said Mr. Bonwig. " I '11 
be Crusoe, and you may be t'other fellow." 

" And we '11 shoot ducks for a livin' ! " said Fri- 
day. " Come on, Mr. Crusoe !" 

They left the hut, and went in puisuit of game, 
little thinking that accident might soon compel 
them to commence living the life that was so pleas- 
ant to joke about, more in earnest than either 
dreamed of doing now. But the story of how that 
came to pass will have to be related in another 


By Margaret Vandegrift. 

You need n't be trying to comfort me — I tell you my dolly is dead ! 

There 's no use in saying she is n't, with a crack like that in her head. 

It 's just like you said it would n't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day ; 

And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you had n't a word to say. 

And I guess you must think I 'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue ! 
As if I did n't know better than that ! Why, just suppose it was vou ? 
You might make her look all mended— but what do I care for looks ? 
Why, glue 's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books ! 




My dolly ! my own little daughter ! Oh, but it 's the awfulest crack ! 

It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack 

Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf. 

Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me ? I know that I did it myself! 

1 think you must be crazy — you '11 get her another head ! 
What good would forty heads do her ? I tell you my dolly is dead ! 
And to think I had n't quite finished her elegant new Spring hat ! 
And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat ! 

When my mamma gave me that ribbon — I was playing out in the yard — 
She said to me, most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde." 
And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it ; 
But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!" 


But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do, 
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too. 
Oh, my baby ! my little baby ! I wish my head had been hit ! 
For I 've hit it over and over, and it has n't cracked a bit. 

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course; 
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse ; 
And I '11 walk behind and cry ; and we '11 put her in this, you see — 
This dear little box — and we '11 bury her then under the maple-tree. 

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird ; 

And he '11 put what I tell him on it — yes, every single word ! 

I shall say: "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead; 

She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head." 



I2 3- 


Here is the good old story of the Jolly Abnot of Canterbury, 
told by Hezekiah Butterworth in St. Nicholas for January last, 
arranged for parlor representation. Some of our young folks may be 
glad to learn it, and prepare their costumes, in time for the coming 
holidays. Mr. Stephens' pictures (in our January number, 1874) may 
be of use in giving hints for the costumes, or our boys may prefer to 
study up the matter elsewhere for themselves. To add to the efiect, 
both boys and girls may take parts as nobles and attendants. 

The Jolly Old Abbot of Canterbury. 

Characters : King John, Nobles, Abbot of Can- 
terbury, Shepherd, and Attendants. 

Scene I. 
King seated on his throne. Enter Noble, bowing. 

Noble. Good King, do you know how many 
servants the Abbot of Canterbury keeps in his 
house ? 

King. No. 

Noble. A hundred ! 

King. That is more than I keep in my palace ! 

Noble. Do you know how many gold chains the 
Abbot has to hang over his coats of velvet ? 

King. No. 

Noble. Fifty ! 

King. That is more than can be found among 
the jewels of the Crown ! I will visit the Abbot of 
Canterbury. He has lived so long in luxury that 
he has lived long enough. Bring me my royal 
steed ; I will visit him at once. 

[Exit Noble as curtain falls. 

Scene II. 

Abbot, elegantly dressed, seated in arm-chair. 

Enter King, attended by Nobles. 

King. How now. Father Abbot ? I hear that 
thou keepest a better house than I. That, sir, is 
:reason — high treason against the Crown. 

Abbot. My liege, I never spend anything but 
what is my own. I trust that your Grace would do 
ne no hurt for using for the comfort of others what 
myself have earned. 

King. Yes, Father Abbot, thy offense is great. 
The safety of the kingdom demands thy death, 
nd thou shalt die. Still, as thou art esteemed a 
nan of wit, and thy learning is great, I will give 
hee one chance of saving thy life. 
Abbot. Name it, my liege. 

King. Thou shalt, when I come again to this 
■lace, and stand among my nobles, answer me 
I tiree questions. 

Abbot. Name them, my liege. 

King. Thou shalt tell me, first, how much I am 
worth, and that to a single penny. Thou shalt tell 
me, secondly, how long a time it would require for 
me to ride around the whole world. Thou shalt 
tell me, thirdly, what I am thinking. 

Abbot. Oh, these are hard questions — hard ques- 
tions for my shallow wit ! But if you will give me 
three weeks to consider them, I think I may answer 
your Grace. 

King. I give thee three weeks' space ; that is the 
longest thou hast to live. If then thou canst not 
answer well these questions three, thy lands and 
thy livings shall become the Crown's. 

[Exit King as curtain falls. 

Scene III. 

Abbot walking to and fro, apparently in deep 
thought. Enter Shepherd, staff in hand. 

Shepherd. How now, my Lord Abbot ? What 
news do you bring from the King ? 

Abbot. Sad, sad news, Shepherd. I have but 
three weeks more to live, if I do not answer him 
three questions. 

Shepherd. And what are these questions three ? 

Abbot. First, to tell him, as he stands among his 
nobles, with his gold crown on his head, how much 
he is worth, and that to a single penny. Secondly, 
to tell him how long it would take him to ride 
around the world. Thirdly, to tell him what he is 

Shepherd Then cheer up, cheer up, my Lord 
Abbot. Did you never hear that a wise man may 
learn wit of a fool ? They say I much resemble 
you. Lend me your gown and a serving-man, and 
I will stand in your place, and will answer the 
King's questions. 

Abbot. Serving-man thou shalt have, and sump- 
tuous apparel, with crosier and miter, and rochet 
and cope, fit to appear before the Roman Pontiff 
himself. Go, and thou shalt have thy reward if 
thou canst save my life. 

Exit Shepherd as curtain falls. 

Scene IV. 

Curtain rises, and discovers the King and his 

Nobles, apparently awaiting the arrival of 

some one. Enter Shepherd, dressed as the 


King. Now welcome. Sir Abbot. Thou dost 

faithfully keep the appointed day. Now answer 




correctly my questions three, and thou shalt save 
both thy life and thy livings. 

Shepherd. Well, my liege, but to answer cor- 
rectly I must speak the truth. 

King. And thou shalt. Now tell me how much 
I am worth, and that within a single penny. 

Shepherd. Twenty-nine pence. Judas betrayed 
his Lord for thirty ; and since thou art willing to 
betray the Church, I think that thou must be one 
penny the worse than he. 

King [laughing]. Why, why, my Father Abbot, 
I did not think that I was worth so little ! And 
now, jolly priest, tell me just how long it would 
take me to ride around the world. 

Shepherd. You must rise with the sun, and ride 
with the same until it riseth on the next morning, 

when you will have ridden the circuit of the world 
in just twenty-four hours. 

King [laughing]. I did not think I could do it 
so soon. But now comes the question that will put 
thy wits to the test. What do I think ? 

Shepherd. You think I am the Abbot of Canter- 
bury, but I am not. I am a poor shepherd, and 
that you may see [throwing off his cloak], and I 
have come to beg pardon for the Abbot and 

King [laughing heartily]. And thou shalt have 
it. Tell the Abbot that thou hast brought him a 
full and free pardon from the King. And as for 
thyself, I will give thee four nobles each week, for 
the merry jest thou hast shown me. 
[Curtain drops.] 


Up, down ! Up, down ! 
All the way to London town- 
Here we go with baby ! 
I 'm the papa, 
You : re the ma'ma, 
You 're the pretty lady ! 

Up, down ! Lip, down ! 
All the way to London town- 
See how fast we 're going ! 
Feel the jar 
Of the car ? 
Feel th'e wind a-blowing ? 

Up, down ! Up, down ! 
All the way to London town- 
Here we are this minute ! 
Rock a chair 
When we two are in it 





(A Centennial Tea Story.) 

By Eliza Wood. 

It was strange that we should all see an Indian 
in grandmamma's tea-cup on the night of Decem- 
ber 1 6th, 18 — , Emily and George, and little Dan 
and I. I am Godfrey. 

A lone Indian, with a bow in his hand, shaped 
in the tea-leaves on one side of the cup, and on the 
other side, some scrawling writing, like this : 

Emily read it " Fra Drake," and grandmamma was 

" Now tell us a story about the old house on the 
wharf, grandmamma," Emily said, "and let me 
sit on the rug with my back close to your knees, 
: for I shiver so at Indian stories." 

We knew it was to be an Indian story, because 
grandmamma always took her text from some of 
the shapes that we children saw in the tea-leaves, 
and on that night we saw only the figure of an In- 
dian and the writing. 

"Let me get into your lap," said little Dan, 
" for my efelant is so tired." 

Little Dan is only three years and a half; but he 
owns a very large, lead-colored canton flannel ele- 
phant. He sleeps with it, generally lying on his 
stomach with the beast under him, and keeps it 
on the nursery-table near him when he eats his 

George popped it into the soup-tureen one day 
1 at dinner, while Dan was gazing at the pudding ; 
in consequence, there was a feud between George 
1 and Dan for two days, and a coolness for a week, 
although George allowed Dan to kick him, and 
good-naturedly assisted in bathing the elephant's 
feet and legs, which were greasy with chicken- 

" I '11 tell you the story that my mamma told me 
when I was a little girl and lived in the old house 
on the wharf," said grandmamma. ''I have re- 
membered the 1 6th of December ever since. I 
suppose you children don't know what happened 
on that night, Anno Domini 1773 ?" 

" Efelants ? " asked Dan, gravely. 

He always entered into the conversation with 
solemnity, especially when about to fall asleep. 

" It was n't Sir Francis Drake's return from his 

voyage round the world, was it," George asked, 

" Sit on him for a gaby," Emily whispered. 

Grandmamma merely looked at him until he 
begged her pardon, and laughed nervously. 

It was not that she was so intolerant of ignor- 
ance, but George had such a talent for exposing 

Emily and I were afraid to guess. I had the Re- 
peal of the Stamp Act on the tip of my tongue, 
but I turned it into a cough, seeing George so dis- 

"The old house." grandmamma began, "was 
like most other houses of its day. The second 
story overhung the first, the rooms were built 
around a huge stone chimney in the middle, the 
garden was paled in, and my grandfather was per- 
mitted to wharf before his door, and to make a 
' causey ' ten feet square from his wharf to low- 
water mark, to be free of access. When our 
whaler returned from a voyage, she came into our 
own wharf; and next to it but one was Griffin's 

" In the winter season the family lived down- 
stairs—grandmamma and grandpapa and Uncle 
Godfrey and my mamma, who was the only girl. 

" On the night of my story — December 16th, 
1773 — my mamma had a bad cold and hoarseness, 
and her mother had to put her to bed quite early 
in the afternoon. 

" I have slept in the same little truckle bed, when 
I was a child, in a small wainscoted room just off 
the sitting-room in which the family lived in win- 
ter. Lying in bed with the door open, one could 
see the huge fire-place, and the doors on either 
side, which opened into Uncle Godfrey's bed- 
chamber and grandmamma's. The sitting-room 
extended nearly all across the back of the house. 

" Grandfather came into the sitting-room by the 
back door just as grandmamma was pouring some 
hot water into a little china tea-pot from the tea- 
kettle that always hung from the crane. 

" ' Not making tea, I suppose, Maria ? ' he said, 
with a smile. 

"'Yes, I am, Oliver, for the child; she needs 
something hot for her cold, and I think it a shame 
to throw away real good tea,' grandmamma re- 

" : Do you not know,' said grandfather, ' that the 
word tea ought not so much as to be once named 




by the friends of American liberty, and here yon 
are openly using it before me, a Son of Liberty, 
and a selectman.' 

" He picked up the beautiful little china tea-pot 
and flung it behind the back-log, a cloud of steam 
and ashes arising; then he turned to grandmamma 
and said : 

" 'I ask your pardon if 1 have been too hasty; 
but I am just from the assembly in the old South 
Meeting-house, and we are waiting there for Rotch's 
answer from the Governor. His time is up, and he 
must sail with the tea to-night.' 

"Grandmamma did not answer. She was, with 
the poker, carefully lifting the tea-pot by the han- 
dle out of the ashes. There was a small piece 
nicked out of the spout, which seemed to pain her. 

" Grandfather went out of the house and shut 
the front door with a heavy slam. Dear mamma 
closed her eyes then, to make her mother think she 
had been asleep during this little domestic scene. 
Grandmamma came and listened to her breathing, 
and tucked the bed-clothes in about her. 

" ' God bless you, my child.' she said, ' and help 
us all.' Then she took down her gray cloak and 
hurried out of the house. 

" Poor mamma sat up in bed and wondered 
what it all meant. 

" She knew a little about Rotch and the ship 
Dartmouth ; that Mr. Rotch was the owner of the 
Dartmouth, which ship had come in to Griffin's 
wharf one Sunday morning, laden with one hun- 
dred and fourteen chests of the East India Com- 
pany's tea ; that, Sunday as it was, the selectmen 
had held a meeting, and that it was decided that 
the tea should not be landed. 

"The school-children had come down to grand- 
father's wharf one Saturday morning to see the 
Dartmouth lying at Griffin's wharf, with two other 
tea-ships that were anchored there under guard, 
and mamma had joined in all their ceremonies that 
meant independence and liberty, except spitting 
upon a stamp which one of the boys had ; that 
mamma declined to do, because she said it was a 
nasty trick. She had sacrificed her only doll when 
an effigy of George Grenville was needed for hang- 
ing upon a miniature Liberty Tree, and had joined 
in a feast under this tree (a barberry-bush in Cof- 
fin's field near the school-house) to celebrate the 
repeal of the Stamp Act. 

" She had contributed liberally toward a testi- 
monial of sassafras candy which was presented to 
the son of Edward Proctor, captain of the guard 
of the tea-ships ; and yet the whole thing was a sad 
puzzle to her little brain, and it made her very un- 
happy to think that the end of it all was that her 
father had nearly broken the pretty china tea-pot, 
and her mother had left her alone in the house. 

"Well, mamma, from her little bed, watched 
the bright flames of the wood fire in the sitting- 
room until it burned low and the tea-kettle stopped 
singing. It was quite dark outside and very still. 

"Mamma crept out of bed and stole into the 
sitting-room with a blanket wrapped around her, 
and sat down on her little stool on the hearth. She 
wished herself back in bed as soon as she was 
seated upon the hearth ; for the flickering fire-light 
made strange shadows on the wall, and the dark- 
ness in the corners of the room was so dense that 
it seemed to her miles deep, and she did not dare 
to turn her back to it, or return to her bedroom, 
for it was creeping toward her slowly. All the 
familiar objects in the room were shrouded in dark- 
ness except the strings of dried apples hanging 
from the center beam, and grinning like monster 
teeth, and the flitches of bacon that stretched and 
humped into wicked shapes to her terrified eyes. 
Then the darkness seemed to be infolding her, 
and the stillness hummed drearily in her head, and 
she tried to scream for her mother, but her voice 
would not come." 

"Oh, don't let the Indian come now; I can't 
bear it," said Emily. 

" He must come when he did come," said 
George; "mustn't he, grandma?" 

"Yes," answered grandmamma, "and he did 
come just as mamma was trying to scream ; the 
shed door opened, and the back door into the sit- 
ting-room opened, and a very tall Indian strode 
in up to the chimney-place and lighted his pipe 
with a coal from the fire. Mamma tried to say, 
' Don't kill me ! ' but her voice failed ; and then a 
ray of hope came to her, that the Indian would go 
away without seeing her. and then he spoke to her. 

" 'Why, child, you'll perish with cold,' he said. 
' Go back to bed. Where 's your mother? " 

" He stooped and picked her up and carried her 
to her bed, and was heaping some extra coverings 
upon her when a wild war-whoop resounded out- 
side, and was echoed from various parts of the 

" ' That 's the signal,' he said, and rushed out of 
the back door. 

" After that mamma could only remember a 
whirlpool of noises, war-whoops, and splitting 
sounds. Then a dead silence, and then her father 
and mother came in with the Indian, and threw on 
more logs and warmed themselves at the sitting- 
room fire. 

" ' I found the child sitting on the hearth, when 
I came home to light my pipe,' said the Indian, 
with the voice of Uncle Godfrey. ' 1 must see if 
she is awake.' 

"Poor little mamma's voice came back then; 
she put her arms around his neck as he stooped 




over her, and sobbed out ' Are you a friendly In- 
dian ? ' 

" He burst out laughing with Uncle Godfrey's 
laugh, and carried her into the sitting-room, where, 
in her mother's lap, she told her unhappy story as 
well as she could for laughing and crying and kiss- 
ing them all. 

" Uncle Godfrey took off his crown of feathers, 
and knelt to mamma to pass her fingers through 
his soft fair hair. 

" ' Whatever did you do it for, Uncle Godfrey ? ' 
she cried, and then her father tried to explain to her 
what had happened in Boston harbor that night." 

"What had happened. George?" asked grand- 

" A party of men disguised as Indians, at a con- 
certed signal, had gone on board the tea ships, and 
splitting open the chests of tea, had emptied their 
contents into the water. Three hundred and forty- 
two chests." 

" Why had they done this, Godfrey ? " 

" Because it had been resolved in the colonies 
not to use any articles taxed by the crown, and the 
consignees of the tea would not order the ships to 
sail back with their cargo, and a clearance was de- 

nied Mr. Rotch, and this was the only way to prove 
that we were in earnest." 

•'And we were in earnest," said grandma, with 
kindling eyes. " Our country's future might have 
been foretold that night, looking into those dark 
waters where the tea-leaves were unfolding. 

" We now know the shapes they took : Lexing- 
ton, Ticonderoga, Crown Point, Bunker's Hill, 
Long Island, White Plains, Trenton, Brandywine, 
Germantown, the war on the ocean, and York- 
town, when Lord Cornwallis delivered up his sword. 

'•Eight years after the battle of Lexington 
Washington issued a proclamation of peace." 

"You look like a statue of Liberty when you 
say Washington, grandmamma," said George. 

Grandmamma smiled, and little Dan cried out 
in his sleep, his nose was flattened against his ele- 

" I wish Dan would not make those startling 
noises," said Emily, whose back was still close to 
grandmamma's knees; "ringforhisnurse, George." 

"No, I want to carry the little rascal myself," 
said George. 

So we all bade good night and thanked grand- 
ma for her tea-cup story. 


iv Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr. 

O ROSEBUD garland of girls ! 

Who ask for a song from me. 
To what sweet air shall I set my lay ? 

What shall its key-note be ? 
The flowers have gone from wood and hill ; 
The rippling river lies white and still ; 
And the bird that sang on the maple bough, 
; Afar in the southland singeth now ! 

O Rosebud garland of girls ! 

If the whole glad year were May ; 
If winds sang low in the clustering leaves, 

And roses bloomed alway ; 

If youth were all that there is of life, 

If the years brought nothing of care or strife, 

Nor even a cloud to the ether blue. 

It were easy to sing a song for you ! 

Yet, O my garland of girls ! 

Is there nothing better than May ? 
The golden glow of the harvest-time ! 

The rest of the Autumn day ! 
This thought I give to you all to keep : 
Who soweth good seed shall surely reap ; 
The year grows rich as it groweth old, 
And life's latest sands are its sands of gold ! 



,8 7 s.] FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. 1 29 


Birds know a great deal. They know how to find their food, and 
where to go for a change of climate. They know, too, how to build 
nests, and how to take care of their children. They are wise almost as 
soon as they are born. 

But if you think birds cannot be taught anything besides the things 
that they know of their own accord, you are very much mistaken. They 
1 can be taught to do many funny tricks. I know a boy named Robby 
who has seen them, with his own eyes, do — what, do you think ? 

Why, he has seen two yellow canary-birds harnessed to a little bit of 
a coach, drawing it along in the liveliest way, with a canary-bird tor a 
driver and another canary for footman. Think of that ! Yes, and he 
has seen these same birds do even more than this. 

He has seen them act a play. I '11 tell you about it. 

First, one pretty little fellow, named Mr. Prim, came hopping in as 
lively as a cricket. Then came another pretty little yellow fellow, named 
Major Flit, and he had — A gun ! And — O, O ! — what did Major Flit do 
but point his gun right at Mr. Prim and fire it off ! Down fell Mr. Prim 
stark and stiff — his eyes shut tight, and his poor little toes curled under. 
j But Major Flit was not sorry one bit for shooting poor Mr. Prim. He 
strutted about as if he had done something fine. Then another canary, 
named Corporal Gruff, came in, carrying two little pails of water. They 
were about as big as thimbles. He shook his head sadly as he looked 
at poor Mr. Prim lying so helpless and stiff. Then he hopped savagely 
up to Major Flit, and stared at him, with an air that said : " What does 
this mean, sir ? " 

Something dreadful might have happened then if, quick as a flash, Mr. 
Prim had not jumped up, as if to say : 

" Ho ! ho ! you thought I was killed, did you ? Well, I 'm just as 
[much alive as you are ! " 

Now the birds had been taught by their kind master to do all this. 
The gun would go off and make a flash, but it had no shot in it. 

Robby dreamed that night of Mr. Prim, the Major and the Corporal ; 
•the Major had on soldier clothes, and Mr. Prim was shaving himself 
before a yellow looking-glass ! Was not that a funny dream ? 

If you ever go to a show where there are performing birds, look out 
sharply for Mr. Prim, the Major, and Corporal Gruff. 

Vol. III.— 9. 


T A C K - I X - T H E - P U L P I T . 



No time for the usual compliments to-day, my 
chicks. Jack has news for you ! A little bird 
tells him that Deacon Green thinks there ought to 
be a "Young Contributor's" department to St. 
Nicholas, and that it will not do the children 
one bit of harm, provided the vanity of unfledged 
authors is not fed by printing their names. Hurrah 
for the deacon ! He 's written a letter to the editor 
about this matter, and Jack would n't be one bit 
surprised if something should come of it ! Per- 
haps next month — who knows ? 

" The north wind doth blow, 
And we shall have snow, 
And what will our Jack do then? — poor thing! " 

writes a dear little boy. Bless his heart ! Jack 
does n't mind the snow one bit. In this respect he 
differs from others of his race. 

Ah ! what wonderful folks these Scribners are, 
to be able to make a Jack-in-the-Pulpit blossom all 
Winter ! This reminds me, strange to say, of 


Well. Wonders never cease. You '11 excuse 
my bringing forward a dried up old adage, my 
chicks, as I wish to apply it strictly to something 
the birds told me — which is, that certain creatures 
of the worm and small fry order can be dried up 
completely, kept in that state for years, and then 
be brought to life again ! Now it 's bad enough to 
be a worm any way, but just conceive the state of 
mind a worm must be in who is brought to life after 
having been dried up for a dozen years ! The pretty 
schoolmistress and Deacon Green were talking on 
this subject in the twilight last evening. Speaking 
of a minute sort of worms known as vinegar eels, 
she said that it was known to the botanist Linnaeus 

that these worms could be dried up and then re- 
vived. Also, that she had read that somebody 
named Baker, in 1775, found that the young of 
Anguillula tritici, inclosed in diseased grains of 
wheat, could be revived, even after a desiccation 
of twenty-seven years, by being moistened with 
water : and other naturalists observed the same fact 
for shorter periods. 

Ah ! the school-mistress is a wonderful little 
woman. She brought out that Anguillula tritici 
so glibly that it made Deacon Green fairly blink. 


What a world this is ! Hearing some persons 
mention the British Broad Arrow, I naturally in- 
quired of the birds about it, knowing that they are 
specially interested, poor things ! in arrows and in 
all sorts of weapons. 

Now, what do you think they told me ? 

Why, the English Broad Arrow is n't an arrow 
at all. That is, it 's not an arrow that you can fire 
from a bow at a mark, but it is a mark itself. Yet 
not a mark to be fired at. It is a mark stamped 
or cut upon wood and iron and certain other ma- 
terials which belong to the British Government 
and are used about its naval ships or dock-yards. 
The Broad Arrow looks very little like an arrow, 
and very much like the print which a hen's foot 
leaves in the mud. 


"It's amazing," said Deacon Green, "how 
stupid we human beings are, little and big; what 
worthless things we strive for, and what blessings 
we carelessly cast away. In some parts of Japan, 
when you go home from a dinner, a servant is sent 
after you with a box containing everything that 
was offered to you at table and that you refused. 
Ah ! what if some day an angel comes after us to 
show us all the blessings that were offered to us on 
earth, that we were too stupid or too obstinate or 
too proud to take ! 


As Jack wishes me to give a report concerning the "Crooked 
Story," printed on page 775 of the October number of St. Nicholas, 
I comply with pleasure. Here is the first correct rendering (received 
Sept. 22d) : 

The Story. 

A right sweet little boy, the son of a great colonel, with a ruff 
about his neck, flew up the road swift as a deer. After a time he had 
stopped at a new house and rung the bell. His toe hurt him, and he 
needed rest He was too tired to raise his fair, pale face. A faint 
moan of pain rose from his lips. 

The maid who heard the bell was about to pare a pear, but she 
threw it down and ran with all her might, for fear her guest would 
not wait 

But when she saw the little one, tears stood in her eyes at the 
sight. " You poor dear ! Why do you lie here ? Are you dying ? " 

'" No," he sighed, " I am faint to the core." 

She bore him in her arms, as she ought, to a room where he might 
be quiet, gave him bread and meat, held scent under his nose, ued 
his collar, wrapped him warmly, gave him some sweet dram from a 
vial (or phial), till at last he went forth hale as a young horse. His 
eyes shone, his cheek was red as a flower, and he gamboled a whole 
hour. Sarah M. Gallaudet (aged 10). 

The same day brought an equally correct rendering by Nessie E 
Stevens, who accordingly shares the honors with Sarah. F. E. C> 
rendering was received earliest of all (Sept. srst), but she failed to 

i8 7 5-l 


change the words "drachm " and " shown.'' R. A.'s came in with 
Sarah's, but he had wrongly changed "side " (sighed) to said. The 
following girls and hoys have straightened the story perfectly, falling 
behind Sarah and Nessie only in point of time: 

F. C. Doubleday, Bertha W. Young, Charles D. Rhodes, "Rose," 
Anna Jerenson, Sallie C. Schofield, H. L. Brown, Mary Trox-ell. 
Laurie T, Sanders, Addie Lawrence, Lily Graves, W. C. Kent, 
"Pigeon," Helen F. Mackintosh, Harry G. Perkins, " Mayflower," 
May Harvey, Bessie H. Van Cleef, James E. Whitney, Belle Peck, 
Charley Read, John C. Williams, Lenora Louise Crowell, " Hamlet," 
William Harding, Katie H., Jessie M. Mctcalf, A. Eugene Billings, 
Jennie Carman, Lulu Van Eaton, Theodore W, Birney, Annie Lee 
Macreading, Mamie A. Johnson, Harry C. Powers, Annie E. West- 
cott, Mary B. Leiper, Poblito Herbcrto, Nellie Kellogg, Helen W. 
Clarkson, Nellie F. Elliott, Nellie Fairbairn, Annie 1. Earle, Mamie 
F. Danforth, Florence M. Easton, Harry Wigmore, Cora J. Whiting, 
Nellie Shed, William J. Haines, Mary Tourney, Clara Mack, George 
A. White, and Stevie B. Franklin. 

Many other " straightenings" of the "Crooked Story " have been 
received, but they each contain one or more errors. Every effort, 
however, is heartily appreciated, and I hope to hear from all the 
writers again on the next similar occasion. 

In praising one and all for trying to straighten the crooked story, I 
must not ignore its several offenses against correct pronunciation. It 
was allowable, for the puzzle's sake, to claim the same sound for such 
words as wtten and wen, are and alt, arms and alius, sore and saiv 
(especially as these are the too common pronunciations) ; but now 
that the puzzle is solved, we all must be doubly careful to sound our 
r's and h's, and give each word its full value. 

Little Schoolma'am. 


Have you ever heard of sea-horses ? I have. 
The birds tell me there are plenty of them in the 
sea. If it's so, I'll thank the editors of St. 


Nicholas to show you a picture of one, and then, 
linay be, you '11 be able to find out further particu- 
j ars for yourselves. 


" Respect your teachers, boys," said Deacon 
[ ilreen to two smart young; fellows from town who 

vere just now walking "across lots" with him. 

' Respect your teachers. I don't mean only that 
1 'Ou should treat them with outward deference. 

but I want you to truly honor them. If you try to 
do it and can't — why, go to another school. Honor 
the man who teaches you, who preaches you, who 
reaches you, say I." 

The boys laughed at the deacon's funny rhyming, 
but I noticed that they straightened up as he spoke, 
and, from the bright look in their eyes, it was evi- 
dent that they took his idea. 

LEFT handed animals. 

MONKEYS and boys, as a general rule, take hold 
of things most naturally with the right hand ; but 
nearly all other animals may be said to be left- 
handed ; that is, whenever their claws, paws, or 
feet serve the purpose of hands, the left is used 
instead of the right. I am told that Dr. Living- 
stone, the celebrated traveler, who had sharp eyes 
of his own, gave it out as a fact that lions, tigers 
and leopards always strike their prey with the left 
paw, and that, so far as his observations went, all 
quadrupeds could be called left-handed. Even 
parrots extend their left claw when they wish to 
take anything from your hand ; and in gnawing a 
bone, a dog almost invariably steadies it with his 
left paw. 

What is your experience, my pets ? Do pigs 
generally put their left foot in the trough, or not? 


'"' Don't carry eggs and stones in the same bas- 

That 's all I heard — a mere passing remark of 
the deacon's. Can my boys and girls make any- 
thing out of it? It strikes me that often when 
things go wrong in every-day affairs, it may be be- 
cause somebody has tried to carry eggs and stones 
in the same basket. Persons of tact never do this. 

a shrewd farmer. 

Here is a letter that will amuse the chicks who 
have been prying into cows' mouths of late ; though 
I hope they will not admire the cute farmer too 
much. There are some kinds of shrewdness which. 
Jack does n't by any means hold up as good ex- 
amples : 

Dear Jack: Your Item concerning "Cows' Upper Teeth," re- 
minds me f{ an incident which occurred in an adjoining town. 

A city gentleman who had just purchased a farm in the country, 
wished to buy some cattle with which to stock it. He therefore at- 
tended an auction where cows were to be sold. One of them, a re- 
markably tine animal, soon attracted his attention, and he bought 
her at a fair price. He was examining his purchase, when a farmer, 
who unfortunately had arrived too late to buy the cow himself as he 
had intended, drove up, and thus accosted him : 

" I say, friend, did you bid off that cow '! " 

" I did," was the reply. 

"Well, did you know that she had no front teeth in the upper 

" No," replied the gentleman, indignantly. " Is that so ? " 

" You can see for yourself." 

The gentleman examined the mouth of the cow, and finding no 
tipper teeth, immediately went to the auctioneer and requested him 
to sell the cow again. 

" What 's the trouble ? " asked the auctioneer. 

" She has n't any upper front teeth," was the reply. 

" Very well," replied the auctioneer with a smile, "I 'II put her up 
once more." 

He did so, and the shrewd farmer who had given the information 
to the city gentleman, bid her off at the «inie price. 

*3 : 




The model schooner-yacht which is to be given as a prize to the 
boy or girl who shall best work out the " Prize Puzzle," in this 
month's Riddle-Box, is a very handsome vessel of first-rate sailing 
qualities. The hull is two feet and a half long, and the whole length 
from tip of bowsprit to the end of the boom is four feet eight inches. 
Height from keel to top of mainmast three feet four inches. It is not 
only a good boat to look at, but it is a good fast vessel to sail, and 
all its snils and rigging ''work " just as if it were a real schooner. It 
was built by Fitch of Broadway, who makes so many of the model 
yachts which sail in the races on the lakes in Prospect Park, 
Brooklyn, and in Central Park, New York. It is clipper-built and 
is a fast sailer. It has six sails: a jib and a flying-jib, a foresail and 
a foretopsail, a mainsail and a maintopsail. All the necessary 
"sheets" and ropes will be found in their places and in working 
order. It is a good vessel, a handsome vessel, and a fast vessel, and 
its name is St. Nicholas. Any boy who gets this little schooner- 
yacht ought to be a happy fellow, if there is any water near his home 
where he can sail it. And any girl who gets it ought to be happy 
too, if she has a brother or a boy friend who can help her sail it. It 
is a very different boat from the awkward affairs we grown folks used 
to sail when we were young. No such beautiful fast-sailing miniature 
yachts were made in those days. 

C. McL. — You will find in the nth verse of the 20th chapter of 
Proverbs a better reply to your letter than any we can give you. 
May it encourage and inspire you as it should. 

boys or girls who are too poor to buy St. Nicholas, or who do not 
for any other reason get the magazine, send your back numbers to 
such children and tell them, when they have read them to pass them 
on to other toys and girls who may not have them. Then, if the num- 
bers are passed on from these to others, and so on as long as they 
last, which will be a good while if they are not too carelessly handled, 
each number may give delight and instruction to a great many chil- 
dren who otherwise would never see the magazine at all. This plan 
is not only a generous one, but it is very easy and costs no money. 

Some of our readers who bind their magazines may also know 
poor girls and boys to whom they would like to give back numbers 
of St. Nicholas, if they had them to spare. To these we would 
say that Scribner & Co. are willing to send six back numbers for fifty 
cents, to any boy or girl who will write, enclosing the money, and 
stating that the numbers are to be given away to poor children who 
will pass them on. But if you do not know any boys and girls to 
whom you can give your back numbers, send them to some institution 
for poor or suffering children. There are establishments of this kind 
in nearly every large city, and you may feel sure that the numbers of 
St. Nicholas will be most gladly welcomed by the little inmates. 
Among the institutions of the kind in New York are Dr. Knight's 
Hospital for Crippled Children, Forty-second Street and Lexington 
Avenue, and the children's department of Bellevue Hospital. 

Next month, Jack-in-the-Pulpit will report on the answers to the 
crow and pigeon story. 

Syracuse, N. Y. 
Dear Editor: In the October number of the St, Nicholas a 
little girl speaks of cows' teeth, and Jack said that it was a matter of 
dispute between naturalists whether cows have upper teeth or not. I 
thought I would find out yesterday, so I went to the butcher and 
asked him if cows had upper front teeth, and he said they had none, 
but way back in their mouths they had some large teeth called 
grinders. Good bye. — Yours, truly, Rosa Dickinson. 

Jack did not say there was any dispute among naturalists in regard 
to this matter, for naturalists and scientific men know all about it, of 
course. But he will be very glad, we know, to hear that a little girl 
has gone to work and investigated this matter herself. 

Stratford, Conn. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Please be kind enough to tell me from what 
piece or hymn this quotation is taken: " I was mounted higher in 
the chariots of fire, and the moon was under my feet" — Yours, 

Clara L. Rayder. 

The source nf the quotation referred to is Charles Wesley's hymn 
. on the happiness of the convert, beginning 

" O, how happy are they, 

Who the Savior obey," 

The last stanza reads: 

" I rode on the sky, 

Freely justified I, 
Nor envied Elijah his seat; 

My soul mounted higher, 

In a chariot of fire, 
And the moon it was under my feet." 

Bird-Defenders — Another "Grand Muster-Roll" of Bird-de- 
fenders will be printed in the Spring, and will contain all the names 
received by us from October 1st to the date of its publication. 

Emma T. writes that as her unJe has promised her, at Christmas, 
a bound volume of St. Nicholas for this year, she would like to 
know how best to dispose of her monthly numbers, after she has 
read them. " It's of no use to keep ihem," she says, "if I am going 
to have a fresh, new, bound volume anyway." 

We will tell you. Emma, and all other girls, and boys too, who 
may have back numbers which they do not intend to bind, what is 
the very best thing that carl be done with them. If you know any 

Hiram, N. C — "Epizootic" is a word of five syllables — ep-i-zo- 
ot-ic, the two o's being distinctly sounded. It is compounded of two 
Greek works, cpi, upon, and zoos, an animal. The word which 
means a murrain or pestilence among animals is properly the noun 
cp-i-zo-O'iy — epizootic being an adjective, corresponding with the 
word epidemic as applied to human diseases. For instance, it is 
right to say, " My horse has the ep-i-zo-o-ty," or " my horse has the 
epizootic disease." But if you refer to the disease among animals as 
you would to a general epidemic among men, you may say the epi- 
zootic is raging. In this case the noun disease is understood. 

Madeline Palmer asks if it is "right for a Bird-defender to chase 
a peacock, in hope that some of its feathers may drop out during the 
chase ? " 

We believe that Madeline has reference to a boy Bird-defender. Let 
her ask him this question : " Suppose a big, cross old peacock were 
to see you put a piece of cake in your pocket, and in order to make 
the piece of cake bounce out of your pocket, that peacock were to 
chase you around the yard, and over the fence, and up the road, and 
through the bushes, and into the briars, and across mud puddles; 
every now and then giving you a nip in the legs, or a punch in the 
back, nearly scaring the life out of you, until at last the cake was 
jolted out of your pocket, and then the peacock should stop and eai 
it up, — how would you like that ? " 

If he says he would not like it, then tell him that he ought not to 
chase peacocks to make them drop some of their possessions. 

If he says he would like such treatment, then you can tell him that 
he has not as much feeling as a peacock. 

Here is an account from H. R. C. of the trials of a young printer: 

We have in our office a boy, whose duties are to copy letters, go to 
the post-office and bank, run on errands, and do anything else of an 
unimportant and trifling nature that is to be done. He is fourteen 
years old, and is very bright. Almost his only fault is that he is 
always in an attitude of restless longing for lunch-time to arrive, and 
is also somewhat too fluent in conversation. His name is Albert 
Jenkins, familiarly contracted to Jinks. 

Last Christmas somebody gave him a copy of the Life of Benjamin 
Franklin, and a perusal of that thrilling romance implanted in Jinks' s 
mind an ardent desire to be a practical printer. With a rigid economy 
worthy of a better cause, he began to hoard up a large portion of his 
weekly wages, with the intention of purchasing a printing-press. He 
even cut down his usual daily pie allowance one-half, and sometimes 




did n't eat n sandwich a-week. After practicing this heroic self-denial 
for several months, jinks rushed insanely into the office one morning, 
and, dragging me to a comer of the room, stated in a breathless man- 
ner that a person up-town had an "Inimitable" foot-power press, 
with furniture, ink-roller, composing-stick, and everything else com- 
plete, not to mention numerous fonts of appropriate type. The man, 
having wearied of amateur printing, was anxious to sell out, and had 
offered the establishment to Jinks for the insignificant sum of fifteen 
dollars. Jinks possessed eleven dollars and ninety cents, and bis 
business with me was to bi >rro\v the remainder of the purchase money. 
I yielded to his wishes, and he went off as happy as a boy whose 
teacher is taken suddenly ill and breaks up school. 

He bought that press, and, taking it home, placed it beside his bed, 
so that it might be the last object upon which his eyes should gaze at 
night, and the first to greet his waking. The dreams of affluence and 
luxury which are written of in that absorbing work the " Arabian 
Nights," were cold and dull realities when compared to the gorgeous 
visions of future wealth which floated through Jinks's mind in con- 
nection with his press. He was unchangeably convinced that the 
reputation of Guttenberg, Faust, Caxton, and other printers of not 
inconsiderable repute, would be entirely eclipsed, by the typographical 
fame of Jinks. 

He at once proceeded to set up some type, choosing as his experi- 
mental sentence: "Albert Jenkins, Printer. Good Work and 
Small Profits." This is the way the "proof" looked when it was 
struck off: 


Even the partial and prejudiced eyes of Jinks could not regard this 
as a success. In fact, he was a good deal mortified, and began to 
doubt his chances for notoriety in the printing line— enviable notoriety, 
at any rate. However, after several trials, he corrected the blunders, 
and took another impression. In this the types were all right, but he 
had applied the ink with a too prodigal hand, and, instead of a clear 
and well-defined line of printing being presented to his admiring 
eyes, the job looked like a well-used blotting-pad. Then, after this 
was remedied, his " form " rumbled down, and the types fell into 
what is technically called " pi," which was not at all to Jinks's taste. 
Anybody but a boy would have become discouraged at these repealed 
disasters, but hope springs eternal in the boyish breast; and Jinks, 
finally triumphing over all difficulties, was able to turn out quite a 
creditable job of printing. Then he became a nuisance to the house- 
hold. He printed names, mottoes, and short moral apothegms all 
over everything he could lay his hands on — not sparing his shirts, 
collars, and cuffs, upon which his name appeared in every variety of 
type. His clothes were saturated with a mixture of printers' ink and 
benzine; and by reason of getting his hands caught with painful 
frequency in the press, his fingers were perpetually encased in linen 
bandages, and looked like a row of rag-babies. 

It is the unanimous sentiment of Jinks's family that he ought to 
have his printing done by a regular printer, and dispose of his press 
at auction ; but the indefatigable Jinks persists in his career of paper- 
smearing and finger-mashing, and it is to be hoped that his per- 
severance will ultimately place him in the front rank of American 

The following names of boys and girls who sent answers to puzzles 
in the September number, were unavoidably crowded out of the No- 
vember issue, and are therefore inserted here: Mamie A. Johnson, 
"Mena, Nina and Tina," Fannie M. Harris, Etta B. Singleton, 
Charley Gartrell, Alma Sterling, "Jenny Wren," George H Eager, 
B. G. B., Mark W. C., F. Sykes, Claire de Figaniere, Laura S. 
Benedict, "Hollyhock and Sunflower," Marion A. Coombs, Hattie 
F. Johnson and E. Louise Tibbetts, Eugenia C. Pratt, A. B. E., 
Rachael Hutchins, Rudolph Matz, " Scamp and Nero," George F. 
Wanger, Esq., C. E. Wickes, Amory Prescott Folwell, William C. 
Delanoy, Belle E. Gibson, Hattie Gibson, Charles H. Delanoy, 
I Eleanor N. Hughes, "Phil A. Tely." 

tributed, and I took him. He is about nine years old, and a real nice 
little fellow. He is perfectly contented and often tells us that he likes 
us, and we arc very fond of him- I am only sixteen, and I suppose 
it was a rather long venture ; but, then, there are only my mother and 
me at home. His name is Georgie Newton. F. J. Kellogg. 

We are sure our boys and girls will be interested in the following 
little poem when they know that it is the last work of their friend 
Hans Christian Andersen. Soon after he had written this he died: 

" Like to the leaf which fallcth from the tree, 
O God, such only is my earthly life. 
Lord, I am ready when Thou callest me, 
Lo ! Thou canst see my heart's most bitter strife — 
'Tis Thou alone canst know the load of sin 
Which this my aching breast doth hold within. 

" Shorten the pains of death, shake off" my fear, 
Give me the courage of a trusting child. 
Father of Love, I fain would see Thee near. 
In pity judge each thought and act defiled — 
Mercy, I cry ! dear Lord, Thy will be done, 
Save me, I pray, through Jesus Christ Thy Son." 

A Friend of St. Nicholas writes: A few days ago we were at 
the Indian pueblo of San Domingo, and a very pleasant old warrior 
came to camp to see us, bringing some water-melons with him 
which he graciously bestowed on our mess. In return I gave him a 
copy of St. Nicholas, which he carefully examined upside down in 
front of my tent, not showing much interest until he came to a pic- 
ture of a mountain sheep. And then his brown old face was cov- 
ered with a broad grin, and he poured out his ecstasy in a series of 
exclamations in his own language and Spanish that lasted the greater 
part of the afternoon. " Ah, cimarron ! cimarron ! cimarron ! bucno ! 
bucnot bueno ! " Cimarron was his name for mountain sheep, and 
bueno, as you know, of course, is Spanish for good. Here was some- 
thing that he knew, and he danced the book up and down to give an 
idea of the sheep's motion, and imitated the noise of a gun, whereat 
he let the page fall over to indicate death. He skipped about with 
more liveliness than any one would have believed his poor old legs to 
be capable of; kissed the picture again and again, pressed it against 
his breast, brought us more melons in the fullness of his gratitude, 
and eventually went away murmuring, " muchas gracias, senor, 
much gracias 1 " meaning many thanks. 

Clinton, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I read in the October number of the St. 
Nicholas your answer to Nora Abbott's question: "Why does corn 
pop when placed over the fire?" 

I have heard another explanation. Corn contains air, and when 
placed over the fire the heat causes it to expand, and that breaks the 
skin. Apples and potatoes when placed in an oven will often " pop " 
open for the same reason. — Yours truly, Flora Holt. 

Cuba, Mo. 
Dear Jack : our cow has got upper back grinders and so has our 
calf, but they have n't got upper front teath. our cow and calf is 
called Devon and they have everything all right as God means them 
to have. I read in St. Nicholas every month since the first num- 
ber came out, and think its the jolliest book in the world. I am a 
printer and am a good speller, I believe, and can read well to myself 
but not out loud, but am a bad writer; but I can knock center with 
my rifle three times out of five. Johnny R. 

Lynn, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas: The great elm-tree that Jack spoke of in 
the September number is in our yard ; and besides the currant-bush, 
diere is a young maple in it. — Yours very truly, 

Willie F. Morgan. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I thought some of your readers might like 
to hear about our three rather queer pets. 

The first we got was a young hawk. He was covered with down 
that looked like lambs' wool. He is now all feathered and nearly 
grown, but has never tried to fly, but sits out in the yard and hops 
around a little. We feed him with beef principally, but he is very 
fond of mice. We call him Abe. 

Our next pet was a young flying squirrel. We found it with our 
little kitten, and although the kitten was large enough to play some, 
■ and the squirrel was no larger than a mouse, they seemed to think as 
much of that as they did of the kitten. He died yesterday. We had 
taken him away from the cats and gone to feeding him milk; we 
think that was what was the matter with him. He was nearly full- 
grown. We think that the cats brought him in. We all fell very 
badly on account of his dying — lie was so soft, and pretty, and 'cute. 

Our third pet is the queerest of all, I think. He is a little mulatto 
boy. There was a load of orphan children brought here to be dis- 

A word to you, boys and girls ! If you intend renewing your 
subscription to St. Nicholas, or if you intend to subscribe, do it 
now f Ifyou wait until the busy days just before the holidays, you 
may be subjected to some delay in getting your numbers. Last year 
over twenty thousand people waited almost until Christmas-time 
before sending in their subscriptions, and the consequence was, that 
even with their strong force of clerks, it was impossible for the publishers 
to get all the subscriptions entered and the magazines mailed in time. 
And many people grumbled very much because they had to wait. It 
costs no more to attend to these business matters promptly than to 
put them off until the last minute, and in this case promptness will 
not only save Scribner &: Co. a great deal of trouble, but may save 
yourselves some watching and waiting. Talk to your father and 
mother about this. 







Tlic Knee of the Pilots. 

Explanation. — Each of these pilot-boats represents a 
noted character in the world's history, described in the 
table below. Boat No. I, near by, is of the present 
century ; No. 15 belongs to ancient times ; and all the 
boals between are ranged accordingly, in chronological 
order. The bow of a boat extending in advance of an- 
other signifies that its representative was born later. 
When bows are on a line, you are to understand that 
the characters they represent were born in the same 
year ; and when a boat sails quite clear of those before 
and after it, you may know that the man it represents 
lived and died during a period when neither of the 
others was in existence. 

Now, girls and boys, who can give the right name to 
each of the pilot-boats ? 

Send in your answers, young friends, carefully written 
on one side of the paper, giving the number of each 
boat, with the name of the distinguished person it repre- 
sents, and the date of his birth and death, with not over 
thirty additional words concerning him. Sign your name 
to your answer, and write your notes on a separate sheet. 

An answer must comprise all of the fifteen boats. 
All correct answers received before January 15th shall 
be acknowledged in the March number of St. Nicholas, 
and to the author of the very best answer shall be 
awarded a prize, namely : 

The Beautiful Sailing Schooner- Yacht, 

described in Letter-Box on page 132 of present number. 
Neatness, careful penmanship, correctness of spelling. 

and promptness shall also be taken into account. In 
case of " a tie " as to the merit of the best answers, the 
prize must be awarded by lot, and a second prize of 

The First Volume of St. Nicholas, 
beautifully bound, will be awarded. 

Little Schoolma'am. 

1. An eminent and noble-hearted American, a native 
of Kentucky, of whom Ralph Waldo Emerson said : 
" He is the true history of the American people of his 
time." He died from violence, forty-three years after 
the death of No. 2. 

2. A Hanoverian ; the son of a musician. Though 
a distinguished organist in early life, he did not begin 
until the age of thirty the scientific study that made him 
one of the most eminent men of the century. He was a 
great discoverer of things that have never been on 
earth. His son bears a distinguished rank in his father's 

3. A great musical composer. He wrote sonatas at 
the age of ten. In his prime, he produced principally 
what is known as sacred music. His oratorios give him 
his highest fame. He was blind for several years before 
his death. He lies in Westminster Abbey, though he 
was born in Prussian Saxony. 

4. A celebrated Flemish painter. He was once an 
ambassador to England, and was knighted by a king of 
England and by a king of Spain. His most famous 
picture is in Antwerp. He was a superb colorist. 

5. An Italian mathematician and natural philosopher. 
Also an inventor and world-renowned discoverer. He 



was cast into prison on account of his teachings. You 
can find one of the signs of the zodiac in his name. 

6. The greatest man in his own calling the world has 
ever seen. His wife was older than himself. The year 
of his death is the repetition of two numerals, and the 
request made from his grave has been honored for 

7. A great German reformer, the son of a miner. 
Among his many literary labors, a very important trans- 
lation stands chief. His character was distinguished for 
ardent zeal and unconquerable courage, combined with 
generosity of heart and great prudence when occasion 
demanded. Carlyle says of him : " He was not only 
the tongue, but the sword of his time." 

8. An Italian statesman and diplomatist. He has 
been considered the incarnation of ambition, craft, and 
revenge. His name has been made odious by some 
writers, while others, claiming that he has been misrep- 
resented, defend him as a fine scholar and true patriot. 
His masterpiece was a history of Florence. 

9. An Italian poet of great renown. A lofty, solemn, 
grand-natured man, whose poetry is a delight to scholars 
and thoughtful readers. His greatest poem was not 
known to the world until after his death. He took an 
active part in the politics of Florence, and finally was 
banished from his native city for life. 

10. A noble and heroic character. An illustrious 
knight and a commander in a sacred cause, he refused 
to be made a king, saying " he would never accept a 

crown of gold where his Savior had worn a crown of 
thorns. He is the hero of one of the works of a cele- 
brated Italian poet. 

11. An emperor, a king of France, the founder of an 
empire and also cf a dynasty of kings. He built a 
cathedral especially for his own burial-place. He estab- 
lished churches, monasteries, and schools, and promoted 
learning, arts, and civilization. He was the most power- 
ful monarch of his time, and he died thousands of years 
after the flood. 

12. Surnamed " the Great." A famous Eastern city 
is named after him. At his death he divided his empire 
between his three sons, whose names all began with the 
same letter. 

13. A celebrated historian. One of the greatest men 
and ablest generals that ever lived. Six of his words 
have become immortal. Three were written in his letter 
to the Roman Senate, and three were uttered as his 
murderers fell upon him. 

14. A great general of ancient times. When he was 
nine years old, his father took him to Spain, and made 
him swear on the altar of the Gods eternal hostility to 
the Romans. When over sixty years of age, he took 
poison to escape the power of his enemies. 

15. An illustrious Greek philosopher, and a man of 
great culture. He received his surname from a Greek 
word signifying broad, on account of the breadth of his 
forehead, or, as some say, of his shoulders. He was 
once sold as a slave, but was ransomed. 


The initials and finals form the names of two Amer- 
ican poets. 1. An English clergyman celebrated for his 
eccentricities and religious zeal. 2. A reiterated excla- 
mation. 3. Established rules. 4. A dexterous move- 
iment. 5. Ambiguous. 6. That which lives forever. 

A. u'N. 




The center, left side, and right side form a celebrated 

lessage. Cross-words: I. A letter originally wanting. 

One-third of a day's work. 3. A conjunction. 4. 

■Unworthy persons. 



To be my first each tree can claim ; 

My next, a bird of noble name ; 

My third set people shiv'ring round ; 

My fourth the antelope is found ; 

My fifth, the brewer likes his beer 

When ready customers appear. J. p. «. 


The blanks in each sentence are to be filled with words 

'renounced alike but spelled differently. I. The 

ree grew by the . 2. The had reference to 

h e • 3. You will not if you wear . 4. 

" ne was fastened to a . CYRIL DEANE. 

1. A consonant. 2. Something with which to catch 
fish. 3. A peculiar kind of puzzle. 4. A certain meas- 
ure for liquids. 5- A consonant. T. V 


(The name of a famous English author.) 

My first is in chair, but not in seat ; 
My second is in hot, and also in heat ; 
My third is in have, but not in hold ; 
My fourth is in brave, but not in bold; 
My fifth is in lake, but not in pond ; 
My sixth is in pledge, but not in bond ; 
My seventh is in sharp, but not in dull ; 
My eighth is in draw, but not in pull ; 
My ninth is in sin, and also in crime; 
My tenth is in cent, but not in dime ; 
My eleventh is in knock, but not in hit ; 
My twelfth is in glove, but not in mit ; 
My thirteenth is in pen, but not in quill; 
My fourteenth is in sick, but not in ill. 


This enigma is composed of five letters. The I. 5. 4, 
2, 3 is to deserve. The 4, 5, 1, 2. 3 is to send. The 3, 
2, I, 5, 4 is a watch or clock. The whole is worn by 
high priests. CYRIL DEANE. 






Behead and curtail words having the following signi- 
fications, and form a complete diamond : 1. Part of an 
animal. 2. Forms. 3. Necessary to boats. 4. Parts 
of ships. 5. A cave. 

The following form the diamond : 1. A part of every 
atlas. 2. A short poem. 3. To spoil. 4. A tree. 5. 
A letter. c. D. 

prefix: pi;zzt,e. 

(Prefix a word to each uf these designs and make a word 0f.1t.) 



i. Ella, have you done that hem ? 2. O, what have 
you there ? 3. Will you ever finish that work ? 4. Come 
to me, Rebecca. J. J- T. 


I am composed of three syllables, of which my first is 
a little river in England that gave name to a celebrated 
university ; my second is always near ; my third sounds 
like several large bodies of water ; and my whole is the 
name of a Persian monarch, the neighing of whose horse 
gave him a kingdom and a crown. F. R. F. 


I AM composed of sixteen letters. My 7, 5. 2, 6, 8 is 
a large man. My 8, 9, 15 is a weight. My 8, 11, 10 is 
a combination of metal. My 12, 2, 8 is a small ani- 
mal. My 3, 2, 3, 4 is an article of ornament. My 1, 
14, 16 is what old people sometimes wear. My 13 is a 
consonant. My whole is the name of an American 
author. j. j. t. 


1. Behead, in eloquence, that part which tells, 
And leave a class of snails that have no shells. 

2. Behead an instrument for marking sound, 

And leave a girl's name, with fair meaning found. 

3. Behead a covering for the head in fight, 
And leave a constellation large and bright. 

4. Behead a kind of grief, and for the rest 

Find a white bird who wears a handsome crest. 


I. Come, men, to work. 2. This lance I entomb in 
the earth. 3. Mr. Lucas has come home. 4. Give Bob 
a lesson to learn. 5. Is Louise a selfish girl? 6. Do 
you consider Otto talented ? 7. She rows a boat nicely. 
Concealed in the above sentences are seven words hav- 
ing the following significations : 1. A keepsake. 2. Old. 
3. Money. 4. To pack. 5. An artist's necessity. 
The whole amount. 7. A famed individual. These 
words, written down in regular order, will form a double 
acrostic, the initials and finals naming two Shakespearian 

plays. CYRIL DEANE. 


Easy Enigma. — " A good name is rather to be chosen than great 

Prefix Puzzle. — Prefix Fore. Forearm, Forecastle, Foreclosed, 
Fore-horse, Forelock, Foreman, Forewheel, Foreside, Foresail, Fore- 

Buried Places.— i- Augusta. 2. Utica. 3. Sing Sing. 4. Low- 
ell. 5. Troy. 6. Skaneateles. 

Diagonal Puzzle. — s 

I T 




W R E T C H 


B A S S V I O L 

D I P T H E R I A 


Double Acrostic. — Milton, Handel. 

M— arc— H 

I _d— A 

L — io— N 

T — oa D 

O — liv— E 

N — ai - L 
Easy Metagram.— Gull, Hull, Pull, Dull, Full, Lull. 
Charade, No. i. — Larkspur. 
Pictorial Double Acrostic— Bush, Tree. 

B— us— T 

U— she— R 

S -al- E 

H — ar— E 

Enigma, No. 2. — The Riddle-Box. 

A Flower Acrostic— Hans Christian Andersen.— Heartsease, 
Althaea, Narcissus, Snowdrop, Chrysanthemum, Heliotrope, Rose- 
mary, Ivy, Spiraea, Tuberose, Iris, Amaranth, Nasturtium, Anemone, 
Nigella, Daisy, Elder-blossom, Reseda (Mignonette), Syringa (Lilac), 
Eglantine, Nymphcea (Water-lily). 

Sportive Anagrams. — 1. Draughts — hard lugs. 2. Tennis— sent 
in. 3. Some do in dominoes. 4. Hours at — authors. 5. Or she- 
horse. 6. Rambles — marbles. 7. Spent in — tenpins, 8. But not — 
button. 9. Venison — in ovens. 10. Antelope — one plate. 

Charade, No. 2.— Horse-chestnut. 

Diamond Puzzle. — l 





Ellipses. — 1. Guy. 2, 
6. Benjamin. 7. Joseph. 

Clarence. 3. Dan. 4. Jesse. 5. Frank. 
8. Lewis. 9. George. 10. Bertram, n. 
Eddy. 12. Harry. 13. Jonathan. 14. Robert. 

Pictorial Enigma. — Central Picture : A Terrible Adventure. 
Bird, Terrier, Arab, Nail, Rat, Vine, Tub, Rule, Tarn, Tavem, 
Burnt, Beet, Turtle, Eel, Bat, Bam, Net, Nut, Tern, Bear, Tail, 
Bridle, Barrel, Turret, Tent. 

There was a mistake in the puzzle in the October number entitled 
" Reversals." The only answers that could be given to the two final 
clauses are : " Snap — pans," for No. 6, and " Trip — pirt" for No. 7; 
but the former is hardly admissible, and the latter, of course, incor- 
rect. The answers to the first five are: 1. Meet — teem. 2. Brag — 
garb. 3. Bats — stab. 4. Deer — reed. 5. Spot — tops. 

Answers to Puzzles in October Number were received, previous to October iS, from Florence E. Hyde, " Gussie,* Willie P. 
Dibblee, Lena Dibblee, Beammie Johnson, Beula T 11 gels. Lulu F. Potter, Hattie F. Johnson, E. Louise Tibbetts, Georgie Hays, Abbie N. 
Gunnison Arnold Guvot Cameron, Madelaine Palmer, " L. and N.," Bessie H. Van Cleef, " A Sunbeam," Charles W. Coleman, " Sun- 
flower and Hollyhock," Jessie G. Mackintosh, Julia Lathers, " Pearl," Harry Wigmore, Mamie A. Johnson, " Mayflower," 



Vol. III. 

JANUARY 1876. 

No. 3. 


By h. H. 

To a king's court a giant came, — 
"O King, both far and near 
I seek," he said, "the greatest king; 
And thou art he, I hear. 

' If it please thee. I will abide ; 
To thee my knee shall bend ; 
Only unto the greatest kings 
Can giants condescend." 

Right glad the king the giant took 

Into his service then, 
For since Goliath's mighty days 

No man so big was seen. 

Well pleased the giant, too, to serve 

The greatest king on earth ; 
He served him well, in peace, in war. 

In sorrow, and in mirth, 

Till came a wandering minstrel by, 
One day, who played and sang 

Wild songs, through which the devil's name 
Profanely, loudly rang. 

Astonished then the giant saw 

The king look sore afraid ; 
At mention of the devil's name, 

The cross's sign he made. 

' How now, my master ! Why dost thou 
Make on thy breast this sign ? " 

He said. "It is a spell," replied 
The king — " a spell divine, 

Vol. III.— 10. 

'• Which shall the devil circumvent, 
And keep me safe and whole 
From all the wicked arts he tries 
To slay my precious soul." 

"Oh, ho, my master! then he is 
More powerful than thou ! 
They lied who called thee greatest king ; 
I leave thy service now. 

"And seek the devil; him will I 
My master call henceforth." 
The giant cried, and strode away 
Contemptuous and wroth. 

He found the devil soon. I ween 

The devil waited near. 
Well pleased to have this mighty man 

Within his ranks appear. 

They journeyed on full many a day, 

And now the giant deemed 
At last he had a master found. 

Who was the king he seemed. 

But lo ! one day t ley came apace 
To where four road-ways met. 

And at the meeting of the roads 
A cross of stone was set. 

The devil trembled and fell back, 
And said, " We go around." 
"Now tell me," fierce the giant cried. 
"Why fearest thou this ground?" 




The devil would not answer. " Then 
I leave thee, master mine," 

The giant said. "Of something wron<; 
This mystery is sign." 

• I fast ! " the giant cried, amazed. 
"Good saint, I'll no such thing. 
My strength would fail ; without that, I 
Were fit to serve no king ! " 

Then answered him the fiend, ashamed : 
" 'Tvvas there Christ Jesus died; 
Wherever stands" a cross like that,. 
I may not, dare not bide." 

: Then thou must pray," the hermit said; 
"We kneel on yonder stone, 
And tell these beads, and for each bead 
A prayer, one by one." 

' Ho, ho ! " the giant cried again, 
Surprised again, perplexed ; 

' Then Jesus is the greatest king.- 
I seek and serve him next." 

The giant flung the beads away, 

Laughing in scornful pride. 
' I will not wear my knees on stones : 
I know no prayers," he cried. 

The king named Jesus, far and near, 

The weary giant sought ; 
His name was everywhere proclaimed. 

His image sold and bought, 

Then said the hermit : " Giant, since 
Thou canst not fast nor pray, 

I know not if our Master will 
Save thee some other way. 

His power vaunted, and his laws 
Upheld by sword and fire ; 

But him the giant sought in vain, 
Until he cried in ire, 

"But go clown to yon river deep, 

Where pilgrims daily sink, 

And build for thee a little hut 

Close on the river's brink, 

One winter eve, as late he came 

Upon a hermit's cell : 
: Now by my troth, tell me, good saint, 
Where doth thv master dwell ? 

■ And carry travelers back and forth 

Across the raging stream ; 
Perchance this service to our King 
A worthy one will seem." 

: For I have sought him far and wide. 

By leagues of land and sea ; 
I seek to be his servant true. 
In honest fealty. 

: Now that is good," the giant cried; 
"That work I understand; 
A joyous task 't will be to bear 
Poor souls from land to land, 

: I have such strength as kings desire. 

State to their state to lend ; 
But only to the greatest king 
Can giants condescend." 

"Who, but for me, would sink and drown. 
Good saint, thou hast at length 
Made mention of a work which is 
Fit for a giant's strength." 

Then said the hermit, pale and wan : 
" Oh, giant man ! indeed 
The King thou seekest doth all kings 
In glorious power exceed ; 

For many a year, in lowly hut. 

The giant dwelt content 
Upon the bank, and back and forth 

Across the stream he went, 

" But they who see him face to face. 
In full communion clear, 
Crowned with his kingdom's splendor bright. 
Must buy the vision dear. 

And on his giant shoulders bore 

All travelers who came, 
By night, by day, or rich or poor, 

All in King Jesus' name. 

' Dwell here, O brother, and thy lot 

With ours contented cast, 
And first, that flesh be well subdued. 
For days and nights thou 'It fast ! " 

But much he doubted if the King 
His work would note or know, 

And often with a weary heart 
He waded to and fro. 

i8 7 6.1 



One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay, 

He sudden heard a call : 
' Oh, Christopher, come carry me ! " 
He sprang, looked out, but all 

Then Christopher fell down afraid 

At marvel of the thing, 
And dreamed not that it was the face 

Of Jesus Christ, his king, 

Was dark and silent on the shore. 
" It must be that I dreamed," 
He said, and laid him down again ; 
But instantly there seemed 

Until the infant spoke, and said : 
" Oh, Christopher, behold ! 
I am the Lord whom thou hast served ! 
Rise up, be glad and bold ! 

Again the feeble, distant cry : 
"Oh, come and carry me! " 
Again he sprang, and looked ; again 
No living thing could see. 

1 For I have seen and noted well 

Thy works of charity ; 
And that thou art my servant good, 
A token thou shalt see. 

The third time came the plaintive voice, 

Like infant's soft and weak ; 
With lantern strode the giant forth, 

More carefully to seek. 

• Plant firmly here upon this bank 

Thy stalwart staff of pine, 
And it shall blossom and bear fruit, 
This very hour, in sign." 

Down on the bank a little child 
He found, — a piteous sight, — 

Who, weeping, earnestly implored 
To cross that very night. 

Then, vanishing, the infant smiled. 

The giant, left alone, 
Saw on the bank, with luscious dates 

His stout pine staff bent down. 

With gruff good-will, he picked him up. 

And on his neck to ride, 
He tossed him, as men play with babes, 

And plunged into the tide. 

For many a year, St. Christopher 
Served God in many a land ; 

And master painters drew his face, 
With loving heart and hand, 

But as the water closed around 
His knees, the infant's weight 

Grew heavier and heavier, 
Until it was so great 

On altar fronts and church's walls 
And peasants used to say, 

To look on good St. Christopher 
Brought luck for all the day. 

The giant scarce could stand upright, 
His staff shook in his hand, 

His mighty knees bent under him. 
He barely reached the land, 

And, staggering, set the infant down, 
And turned to scan his face ; 

When, lo ! he saw a halo bright 
Which lit up all the place. 

I think the lesson is as good 

To-day as it was then — 
As good to us called Christians 

As to the heathen men : 

The lesson of St. Christopher, 

Who spent his strength for others, 

And saved his soul by working hard 
To help and save his brothers ! 




By Hezekiah Butterworth. 

The New Year's story I am about to tell is 
well known to German children, all of whom go 
tripping through fairyland in the golden days of 
childhood. It was written by a good German 
baron, Frederic de la Motte Fouque. who wrote 
the beautiful fairy-story " Undine," about which 
all of our readers have heard. It does not appear, 
however, in the popular translations of the works 
of the delightful old baron. It is quite a romance 
in the original, but we have reduced it to a very 
brief and simple story. 

The nobleman who wrote it, and who loves 
good people and children almost as much as Hans 
Christian Andersen loved them, declares that this 
is a story that ought to be told. He does not say- 
why ; he leaves his readers, young and old, to 
guess that by their own firesides. So, you see, 
the story is something of a riddle — one must live 
in a particular way to find it out. 

Berthold was a German merchant. He traveled 
much from city to city. In Germany there are long, 
dark forests, through which he often journeyed. 

One evening, he became bewildered in one of 
these forests. He was riding on horseback, and 
just as the far sunset was flaming over the tall tops 
of the trees above him, he was startled to find he 
had ridden out of his way. He carried great treas- 
ure in his saddle-bags — jewels, ready money and 
bills of exchange. In the recesses of the forests 
there were robbers. 

As he was proceeding along a lone defile, after 
nightfall, he espied a man walking in the foot-path 
before him. He called to him, saying : 

" Who are you ? " 

" I am a collier. I live with my family apart 
from the world, in this forest." 

" Can you give a stranger who has lost his way 
a night's lodging ? " , 

" I have no right to refuse hospitality to a stran- 
ger. In God's name, you are welcome." 

Berthold followed the man till they came to a 
little cottage. The good wife met them at the 
door with a lamp, and a happy family of children 
greeted the collier's return. 

The evening passed pleasantly. The merchant 
told stories of his journeys, and soon felt at home 
among the children gathered lovingly around him. 

At last it was proposed that they should sing. 
The sweet voices of the children were just joining 
in a merry roundelay, when a sudden and loud 
knocking was heard at the door. The children 

stopped singing, and the collier said firmly : " In 
the name of God, come in ! " 

Upon this, the door slowly opened, and a little 
old man, of gentle appearance and manners, came 
stealing in, greeting the family courteously, and 
taking the lowest place at the table. His garments 
were of some ancient pattern ; he seemed wan and 
woe-begone, as though reduced by disease. Ber- 
thold gazed at him with a feeling of great curiosity 
and surprise, but said nothing. He once met his 
eye ; there was something in it so deeply myste- 
rious that he felt a chill creeping over him, and he 
began to be restless and ill at ease. 

At last the little old man folded his hands, and, 
turning to the collier, said: 

'• It is the hour of prayer." 

The collier at once began to sing " Now all the 
woods are sleeping," in which the whole family 
joined, filling the house with such delightful music 
that the merchant listened like one enchanted. 

Presently a voice rose above the rest. It startled 
Berthold, and made the cottage tremble. It was 
the little old man's. 

The family knelt down, and the collier prayed. 
Then they all rose up with loving words, and the 
little old man glided out of the door, bowing as 
humbly as when he came in. 

But presently the door opened again, and the 
little old man once more appeared. He threw a 
look of fearful wildness upon Berthold, then dis- 
appeared, the door closing after him with violence. 

" He is a little touched in mind," said the mer- 
chant, nervously. 

" He is perfectly harmless," said the collier. "I 
have not seen any evil in him for a long time. 
But," he added, " the only chamber I can give 
you for the night has a door that does not shut very 
tightly ; he comes into it in the night, but do not 
fear him ; if you do not think any evil thought or 
do any evil act, he will go out of his own accord." 

Berthold's heart was now far from tranquil. He 
pressed his portmanteau of treasures close to his 
side as the collier lighted him up the narrow stair- 
way to his room. 

He lay down, placing his portmanteau and 
weapons beside him on the bed, but he could 
not sleep. He remembered what the collier had 
said about the little old man, that the safeguard 
against him was the absence of all evil thoughts 
and acts. In this respect the collier's family seemed 
secure ; but the merchant knew how great was his 

i8 7 6.] 



own greed for gain ; how it made him hard and 

uncharitable, and he tried to put away all evil 

I thoughts and to think of the hymn, "Now the 

'woods are all reposing," lest the little old man 

should appear. 

A little past midnight he fell into a troubled 
sleep, and his mind began to wander over his 
schemes for gain. He was dreaming of the good 
bargain he had made, or expected lo make, when 
he was startled by a noise close by. He raised 
himself in bed, and saw the little old man in the 

gage ! " he exclaimed, seizing his pistols. The little 
old man started back, as in terror. He seemed 
to be in an agony of prayer. A change seemed 
coming over him. He appeared conscious of it, 
and, going toward the door, disappeared. 

Berthold gazed after him and then remembered 
the collier's admonition in regard to the danger of 
evil thoughts. He wished that he had acted differ- 
ently, for he wished to bring no evil on the family. 

There was a sound at the latch ; the door opened, 
when an evil-looking giant, wearing a red mantle, 

'he threw a look of fearfl'l wildness upon berthold.' 

moonlight, moving about the room. The merchant 
'at first looked upon him with a feeling of curiosity 

rather than alarm or anger, and while he did so, 

ill was well. But he at last became irritable under 
'the disturbance, and, when the little old man at 

last approached the bed. Berthold's irritability kin- 
'iled into anger, and wicked thoughts began to fill 

lis mind, and he found it hard to restrain his lips 
"from wicked words. 

At last, the little old man touched the portman- 
teau containing the merchant's treasures. This 

yas too much. The merchant's caution forsook 
• lim, and he was filled with rage. 

"Back! you vile robber! back, from my bag- 

appeared. He laughed wildly, and said : " I begin 
to be free again. You have made me grow /" 

Berthold saw that the giant was none other than 
the little old man. 

The merchant leaped from his bed and dis- 
charged his pistol. The giant vanished, growing 
taller and more fearful as he disappeared. 

In a moment, the collier hurried up the stairs. 

" In the name of God," said he, rushing into 
the room, ''what have you been doing to our 
house-spirit ? " 

'• House-spirit ! " said Berthold, like one in a 
dream. " What do you mean ? " 

" He has just gone out of the house," said the 




collier, "perfectly monstrous in his size, and in- 
flamed with fury ! " 

But the collier saw that the merchant did not 
understand him, and he entreated him to go down 
into the common apartment where all of the family, 
aroused by the report of the pistol, had now met. 
The children shrunk away from him as he entered 
the room, and the collier's wife was in tears. 

" And now," said the good woman, " we must 
live all those years over again." 

" This may all seem strange to you," said the 
collier to the merchant; '"but when my wife and 
I first came to the cottage to live, we found it 
haunted by a terrible specter, such as I have just 
seen disappear. But I said to myself, I will not fear 
him, for if I am a truly Christian man no power of 
evil can harm me. I will overcome him with a 
good life, and he shall not overcome me. So, in 
the name of God, I remained. Red Mantle — for 
such is his name — appeared to us continually, but 
we ceased to fear him. I brought up my little ones 
to believe that nothing could harm them while they 
trusted in God ; and that any specter would grow 
less and less who dwelt in a family who had loving 
hearts and lived pure lives. So Red Mantle at 
last became my little ones' playmate. We re- 
strained our dispositions, we guarded our thoughts, 
we loved each other. We prayed together much, 
and the specter began to grow more gentle and to 
shrink in size, year by year, until he became the 
dwarf you saw when he came in the evening to 
prayers. All evil disappeared from his face, and 
■we all loved him as a meek and harmless house- 

spirit, and expected that he would soon be released 
from this troubled state and vanish forever." 

The next morning, the merchant left the cot- 
tage. Years passed away; he traveled from city 
to city, and into countries remote from Germany, 
but he never forgot the experiences of that night. 

One afternoon, near sunset, he found himself on 
the borders of the same forest as before, and he 
resolved again to strike down the defile and see 
what had become of the good collier family. 

It was somewhat late when the cottage appeared 
before him. He dismounted and entered. They 
were singing, " Now all the woods are sleeping." 
It was the hour of prayer ! 

The merchant knelt down beside the white- 
haired old man, expecting every moment the 
house-spirit would re-appear. But the little old 
man did not come. Only a soft light was shed 
abroad amid the shadows of the room, and a sweet, 
low melody arose, like the touch of the most deli- 
cate fingers on finely attuned musical-glasses. 

It was all that remained of the house-spirit, for 
the collier and his family had all these years lived 
pure and holy lives. 

" That was once our house-spirit," said the 
collier, " but it can only now make its presence 
known to us as a gentle light and a strain of music, 
sweet and low. We have subdued him by inno- 
cence and prayer." 

O ye who read this untrue, true story by the 
light of the w-inter fireside, does the new year open 
with some specter in your hearts and homes? 
Unriddle the tale of the collier family. 


By Celia Thaxter. 

Poor, sweet Piccola ! Did you hear 
What happened to Piccola, children dear? 
'T is seldom Fortune such favor grants 
As fell to this little maid of France. 

'T was Christmas-time, and her parents poor 
Could hardly drive the wolf from the door, 
Striving with poverty's patient pain 
Only to live till summer again. 

No gifts for Piccola ! Sad were they 
When dawned the morning of Christmas-day ; 
Their little darling no joy might stir, 
St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her ! 

i8 7 6.j 


But Piccola never doubted at all 

That something beautiful must befall 

Every child upon Christmas-day, 

And so she slept till the dawn was gray. 

And full of faith, when at last she woke, 
She stole to her shoe as the morning broke ; 
Such sounds of gladness filled all the air, 
'T was plain St. Nicholas had been there ! 

In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild — 

Never was seen such a joyful child. 

See what the good saint brought ! " she cried, 

And mother and father must peep inside. 


'- 3S 

Now such a story who ever heard ? 
There was a little shivering bird ! 
A sparrow, that in at the window flew, 
Had crept into Piccola's tiny shoe ! 

How good poor Piccola must have been ! " 
She cried, as happy as any queen, 
While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed. 
And danced with rapture, she was so charmed. 

Children, this story I tell to you, 
Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true. 
In the far-off land of France, they say, 
Still do they live to this very day. 





By Noah Brooks. 

Chapter V. 


' HE boys were a little shy 
Jfe^ of Mr. Montague Morse. 
He had the appearance 
of " a city chap," Hiram 
Fender said. He wore 
a plaid velvet vest, a black frock- 
coat (somewhat seedy, to be sure), 
and his trousers, though tucked 
into the tops of his calfskin boots, 
were more suitable for Boston 
streets than for the plains. Then 
he was very precise in his language, and had a way 
of saying " good morning," instead of " mornin' to 
yer," which quite discomfited Hiram and Tom. The 
latter took the earliest opportunity to declare that 
"that Boston feller was cranky." It seemed very 
odd, too, that he should be knocking about there- 
on the frontier, alone, and seeking a chance to get 
in with some party bound across the continent. 
To be sure, he said that his party had broken up 
and had left a yoke of cattle on his hands ; but 
how did they know that he had not stolen these 
oxen ? Arthur fairly shuddered when this dark 
suspicion crossed his mind ; and he looked involun- 
tarily to see if their new acquaintance did not have 
the "game leg" by which Johnny had described a 
missing adventurer. Morse, however, told a very 
straightforward story, and his manner was so frank 
and open that one of the party, at least, regarded 
him with favor. Barnard said, after much delibera- 
tion, " That fellow is clear griti" 

One afternoon, the boys, leaving Tom at home 
"to keep house," crossed the river and hunted up 
Morse, who was temporarily quartered at the camp 
of some Illinois men. They saw his oxen quietly 
grazing in the meadow hard by, and soon satisfied 
themselves that he had honestly come into posses- 
sion of them. The people at the Illinois camp 
knew all the circumstances of the breaking up of 
the Boston man's party, and they incidentally told 
the story all over again while gossiping about the 
intended trade with our boys. 

" But if we take your cattle in with our team, we 
shall have to trade off our horses, and get a yoke 
of oxen for ourselves," interposed Barnard. 

" Hosses ? have you got a hoss for sale? " asked 
one of the Illinois party. 

"We have a pair," replied Barnard, "which 
we shall not want if we go on with cattle. What 
do you think are best for the plains — cattle or 
horses ? " 

" Well, some allow that hosses is best, because 
they 're the fastest ; then, agin, there 's them that 
allows that cattle 's best, because they hold out 
better in the long run. Then, agin, cattle can feed 
where hosses would e'enamost starve to death. 
Hosses is delicate critters, powerful delicate. How 
much do you allow you '11 get for yer hoss ? " 

Hiram broke in with the information that they 
had not made up their minds to sell. They were 
only considering the matter. At this, a silent man, 
who was mending his trousers in a corner of the 
tent, spoke up : 

" I know four chaps camped down by the creek. 
They've got a cheap yoke of cattle — a voung cow 
and a smart little steer : jest the thing for a leadin' 

Arthur laughed outright at the idea of driving a 
cow in an ox-team. 

" Well, yer may laugh, young feller," said the 
man, as he shut one eye to thread his needle ; 
" but let me tell ye that cows is cows in Californy — 
one hundred and sixty or seventy dollars a head, 
I Ve heerd tell ; and a good drivin' cow will pull 
like all possessed, if she 's rightly yoked. Then 
there 's yer milk all through, yer see, fur nothin', 
so to speak." And he resumed his mending. 

" It would n't do any harm to go arid see that 
team of mixed critters," suggested Hiram. 

So the boys started up, and, getting directions 
from the party in the tent, went off in search of the 
camp by the creek. As they were moving away, 
the spokesman of the Illinois men called after 
them : 

" I '11 trade with ye for that white hoss of your'n. 
I seen him when we war comin' through Ioway. 
Say sixty-five dollars ? '' 

" He's wuth seventy-five," called back Hiram; 
and the boys went on together, the Boston man 
leading off at a great pace. They searched around 
a long time before they found the camp of the men 
who had a yoke of cattle to sell. At most of the 
camps where they inquired, things seemed gloomy. 
The latest news from California was unfavorable. 
Many were talking about turning back ; but many 
others were doggedly completing their preparations 
for the final start. One man, standing on the wheel 

i8 7 6.] 



of his wagon, with a marking-brush and pot of 
paint, was printing on its canvas cover the words, 
"California or bust." This was a sort of defiant 
declaration that many men thought it necessary 
to make, considering how many people were en- 
deavoring to discourage others. The sign was 
common on the tents and wagon-covers of the 
emigrants. Others had such inscriptions as, " We 
are bound to go through,'' or " Bound for the 
Sacramento," and one party had painted on their 
wagon-cover, " Root, hog, or die." 

It was a picturesque sight, this city of emigrants. 
More people were here than on the east side of the 
river. Most of them had completed their outfit at 
Council Bluffs, and were fixing up the few odds 
and ends that were needed before the final start. 
They already affected the rude ways and manners 
of the plains. For the most part, the men wore 
slouched hats and red or blue flannel shirts ; they 
discarded coats and vests, and wore belts at the 
waist. The weather was mild, for it was now early 
May, and groups of emigrants were cooking in the 
open air, or carrying on a sort of outdoor house- 
keeping, of which their wagons were the founda- 
tion. Here and there was a family of father, 
mother, and children. One wagon the boys saw 
had "No more Missoury for us" painted on its 
dingy red cover in black letters ; a flock of white- 
haired children — Arthur said there were sixteen 
— climbed out and in, staring open-eyed at the 
strangers. This populous group had no tent, but 
lived wholly in the wagon, an enormous affair with 
a tall top, high at each end and lower in the 
middle. The father of the family, a yellow-faced, 
discouraged-looking man, wearing mud-colored 
clothes of homespun. " allowed " that he was from 
" Arkansaw," and was not quite sure whether he 
should go to California or Oregon. He should go 
by the North Platte route, and turn off to the north 
by the Fort Hall road, if the gold news should 
" peter out " by the time he reached that point. 

" Gosh ! how that Boston feller do walk," sighed 
Hiram, who found it difficult to keep up with their 
new comrade. Morse strode on ahead, talking 
eagerly over his shoulder ; the hard buds of the 
"rosin-weed" plants that covered the meadow rat- 
tled against his boot-legs as he measured off the 
ground. Arthur trotted along somewhat labori- 
ously, and wondered if all Boston people walked 
like Mr. Montague Morse. 

They found the men who had the ox and cow for 
sale— four great hulking fellows who had four yoke 
of cattle among them. They had had two wagons. 
one of which they had exchanged for provisions 
and cash in the town of Council Bluffs, and the 
other they retained. They would sell the ox and 
cow together for sixty-five dollars. The cow was 

"skittish and a little wild-like," but a good milker 
and was first-rate in the yoke. The steer — well, 
there he was, a small black fellow, with one horn 
crumpled down in the oddest sort of way. 

" Strong as a steam-ingine," explained the owner. 
" Strong as a steam-ingine and tame as a kitten. 
And, strannger, he 's just the knowingest critter 
you ever see. 'Pears like he was human, some- 
times — hey, Tige ! " and the man affectionately 
patted the little black steer on his nose. 

" Is this all you 've got to sell ? " asked Hiram, 
rather discontentedly. 

"Well, the fact is, strannger." replied the man, 
" we don't reely want to sell. 'Pon my word, we 
don't. But we 've no need fur all these cattle, and 
we do need the money. I just hate like pison to 
part with Old Tige. (His name 's Tiger, you see, 
and we call him Tige, for short.) But we've got 
three other yoke and a light load ; and we allow to 
go through right peart, without no trouble." 

The boys walked around the cattle two or three 
times more, their owner entertaining them with 
a long string of praises of his odd yoke, as he sat 
on the wagon-tongue and talked fast. 

"Come now, say sixty dollars and it's a trade. 
I want the money powerful bad," he concluded. 
Arthur pulled Hiram's sleeve and said : 
"Take him, Hi; take him. 1 like that little 
black steer." 

Hiram spoke up: "Give us the refusal of this 
yer yoke of cattle until to-morrow ? " 

"We have not yet concluded whether we shall 
buy any cattle here, or go on with our horses," 

explained Barnard. 
Morse looked a lit- 
tle disappointed, but 
said nothing. 

It was agreed that 
the boys should have 
until next day to 
make up their minds 
about buying the 
cattle at sixty dol- 
lars for the yoke. As 
they walked back, 
Morse, thoughtfully 
whipping off the weed-tops with his ox-goad, said : 
" You , fellows take account of stock — wagon, 
outfit, provisions, and team. I '11 put in my yoke 
of cattle and my share of provisions and outfit, or 
money to buy them, and will pay you my propor- 
tion of the cost of the wagon. Partnership limited ; 
the concern to be sold out when we get through ; 
share and share alike. How's that ? " 

'• That 's fair." said Barnard. But Hiram nudged 
him, and he added : "We'll talk it over. You come 
across and see us the fust thing to-morrow morning." 




It was agreed, and the boys went back to their 
camp to discuss the proposition. Barnard and 
Hiram were really the final authorities in the mat- 
ter ; but Arthur and Tom exercised the younger 
brother's privilege of saying what they thought 
about it. Arthur thought the Boston man must be 
a good fellow. He was bright and smart ; and 
Arthur had noticed that he spoke cheerily to the 
white-headed chddren in the Arkansas wagon. 
Besides, he was always pleasant and full of jokes, 
added the boy, with a feeling that that was not 
conclusive, though he had formed his opinions 
partly by it. 

•' I suppose we have really made up our minds 
to go with oxen. I like that Boston chap. We 
can't get another yoke of cattle — if we sell your 
horse and buy the ox-and-cow yoke — any better 
than by taking this man into camp with us," 
argued Barnard. 

" But them store clothes ! " said Hiram, with 
some disgust. 

" Why, he can't help it if he has to wear out his 
old city clothes." said Arthur, eagerly. " He is not 
foolish enough to throw them away. So he wears 
'em out for common ones. Don't you see ? " 

"And he's a powerful walker," added Hiram, 
with an expression of admiration on his freckled 
face. " Golly ! how that chap kin walk, though ! " 

And this turned the scale. The Boston man was 
solemnly voted into the partnership. 

Tom once more objected that Morse was " stuck 
up," and he was once more suppressed by his 
brother, who reminded him that he talked too 
much with his mouth. This frequent rebuke hav- 
ing silenced Tom, Hiram added : 

" A feller that knows as much about cattle as he 
does, and kin walk like he does, is n't stuck up. 
Besides, he '11 put in just about eighty dollars inter 
the company's mess." 

At this, little Johnny, who still clung to the boys, 
started up. " Eighty dollars ! Oh, I 've got eighty- 
dollars. Wont you take me through for that ? " 

Hiram looked with some disdain on the little 
fellow, who was trembling with excitement, and 
said : " You got eighty dollars, my little kid ! 
Where ? " 

Johnny hastily slipped off his striped trousers, 
and, turning out the lining of the waistband, showed 
eight flat, round disks of something hard, carefully 
sewed in. 

"Them's it! them's it! Eight on 'em ; eight 
ten-dollar gold pieces, all sewed in." And, slit- 
ting little holes in the cloth, he showed the coins, 
sure enough, each sewed in separately from the 

" Poor little chap ! We don't want to take your 
money," said Barnard. 

"No," added Hiram. "Besides, you haint got 
no clothes wuth speaking about. You can't go 
across the plains in them clothes." 

."They're not 'store clothes.' though, Hiram," 
added Arthur, with a laugh. Arthur's heart had 
gone out to the poor little waif, and he reminded 
his comrades that part of his money might be used 
for an outfit, and it would be only fair to take part 
as his share of the cost of the trip. 

" Besides, I 've got clothes," said the waif; and, 
unrolling his bundle, he showed some coarse woolen 
shirts, a pair of cowhide shoes, overalls, and a few 
small articles of wearing apparel. 

Barnard inspected these critically, and said : 
"No woman folks put these up; but they'll do 
better than nothing." 

Arthur felt a touch of homesickness at this re- 
mark, and his thoughts flew back to his mother as 
he glanced over his own tidy suit, the work of his 
mother's hands. He saw her again at the garden- 
gate, as he had seen her many a time while camp- 
ing out in the lonely Iowa prairies ; and, with a 
soft voice, he said : 

" Let's take Johnny along, boys. He shall have 
half of my blankets." 

"What do you say, Barney?" asked Hiram, 
with a little glow in his honest heart, though he 
looked at the waif with an air of severe scrutiny. 

" I 'm agreed, if you are," replied Barnard. 
" But I tell you what it is, Arty, — our tent is full, 
and we can't have any more passengers nor lodgers. 
The partnership is complete this time." 

At this, Johnny, who had ripped out the gold 
coins from his waistband, put them into Hiram's 
hand, and said : 

" Am I going through with you ? " 

" Well, I allow you shall go through with us, 
youngster. It 's share and share alike, you know ; 
and you are to do your part of the work. That 's 
all. There 's nothin' comin' to ye when we get 
through. Understand that?" And a hard look 
flitted across the young man's face as he jingled 
the gold in his palm. 

Johnny protested that he understood the bargain 
perfectly. He was to have such clothes as they 
thought necessary. The rest of his cash was to 
pay for his share of the provisions needed for the 

Next day, Morse came over early, with the in- 
formation that the Illinois men would give seventy 
dollars for Hiram's white horse. Morse was in- 
formed of the conclusion of the partnership dis- 
cussion. The terms were once more gone over 
and fairly understood on both sides, and the bar- 
gain was ratified. 

"Now, then," said Barnard. "This is Mister 
Hiram Fender, late of Lee County, Illinois, known 

1876. J 



as Hi Fender, for short. This is Thomas Fender, 
brother of the same, and 'a right peart boy,' as 
he says ; otherwise Tom. And this infant is my 
brother, Arthur Adams Stevens, probably the best 
boy that ever lived — except me ; and is known in 
this camp as Arty. As for myself, I am Arty's 
brother, which is glory enough for me, and my 
name is Barker Barnard Stevens ; otherwise Bar- 
nard, usually called Barney for short, and some- 
times dubbed Barney Crogan b\» my small and 
impertinent brother." 

The boys laughed heartily at this long speech. 
Morse, not to be outdone in advancing into inti- 
mate acquaintance, said : 

" Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce myself — 
Montague Perkins Morse, late of Hovey & Co.'s, 
Boston ; now bound for California, or bust ; and 
generally known as Mont Morse, or, if you prefer 
it, Mont, — and very much at your service." 

With a great deal of enthusiasm, the boys cele- 
brated this happy conclusion of affairs by going 
over the river and closing the two bargains. The 
white horse was sold to the Illinois men for seventy 
dollars ; and they took Tige and Molly, for these 
were the names of the ox and cow, at the sum 
agreed upon the day before. 

" We will move over here to-morrow," said Hi- 
ram, " and we will take the cattle off your hands 

" But to-morrow is Sunday," said Mont. " We 
are not going to travel Sundays, are we ? " 

Hiram looked a little troubled for a moment. 
Then Barney cheerily said : 

"Oh, no; we are not going to travel Sundays, 
except in cases of great emergency. Are we, Hi ? " 

" Certainly not," answered Hiram, briskly. 
" Never allow to travel on Sundays, not if we can 
help it." 

" Then you '11 keep the cattle until Monday, 
wont you ? " asked Barnard. 

" Well, if you fellers are too pious to come over 
on Sunday, you may take 'em away now," said the 
man, gruffly. 

" All right," replied Hiram. " We Ml take them 
now, and be beholden to nobody for nothin'." 

So the cattle were taken across the ferry, and 
the boys had milk with their corn-meal mush that 

"A mean old hunks," growled Hiram. "Wanted 
us to smash Sunday all to pieces, did he ? Well. I 
allow we made just two milkings out of him." 

Sunday here was not like the Sabbath at home. 
Labor was generally suspended throughout the 
camps, however, except where some impatient 
party stole out with their teams, driving along with 
a half-subdued air, as if afraid " to smash Sunday 
all to pieces." Generally, the emigrants, looking 

neat but uneasy in their particularly clean clothes, 
lounged about the wagons and " traded " in under- 
tones, or discussed the latest news from California 
by way of the States. 

The bright May sun shone down upon a motley 
mass of people scattered among tents or grouped 
around wagons. About noon, the blowing of a 
horn announced that a religious service, of which 
notice had been previously circulated, would begin. 
There was a general sauntering in the direction of 
a cluster of wagons, near which a preacher, stand- 
ing on a feed-box, called the people about him. 

Five or six women, wives of emigrants, aided by 
twice as many men, formed a choir, and their 
voices rose sweetly on the air with the familiar 
hymns of Christian service. Then the minister, 
after devotional exercises, preached a little sermon 
from the text in Romans viii., 17. He talked about 
heirs and heirship ; he dwelt on the fact that they 
were all seeking an inheritance, and while he 
advised wisdom and prudence in this search, ad- 
monishing the people about him to seek the true 
riches, he reminded them that they were joint 
heirs ; that their inheritance was mutual. He 
taught them to forbear with one another ; to be 
patient, loving, and to go on in their journey of 
life, as across the continent, with unselfishness, 
bearing each other's burdens. 

"That's a right smart chance of a sermon," said 
Hiram, as they moved away after the last hymn 
had been sung and the attentive crowd had dis- 
persed. " A good sermon ; and just you remember 
what the parson said about toting one another's 
burdens, you Tom, will ye ? " 

Tom received this lesson with some show of in- 
dignation, and said : " O yes, you 're the man that 
hears sermons for some other feller, you are." 

But Arthur added, in the interest of peace : 

" Tige can't carry the yoke alone. Molly must 
bear up her end. So if you and I don't wash the 
dishes and get supper, Hi and Barnard can't drive 
the wagon and get wood and water." 

"Good for you, Arty," said Hiram, heartily. 
"And even little Johnny here is goin' to pitch in 
and do his share. I know he is, for I seen him 
choppin' wood this mornin' like sixty." 

Johnny colored with pleasure at this rude praise, 
and Arty declared that Johnny was one of the joint 
heirs whom the preacher had talked about. 

The debate about the sermon and their future 
united interests was a good end to a pleasant day. 
Mont had taken up his abode with the party. 
The tent was full, and the six young fellows were 
paired off among the quilts and blankets that cov- 
ered their floor of grassy earth. 

That night, Arthur felt Johnny stirring under 
the blankets bv his side. 




" What is the matter, Johnny ? " he asked. 

The boy put his thin hand on his companion's 
shoulder, and whispered in his ear, " I love you." 

Arty kissed the little waif and said, " It's a bar- 
gain." Then they slept again. 

Chapter VI. 

" Well, now, Johnny, you do look right peart." 
This was Hiram's opinion of the little lad when 
he had been equipped with his new clothes. He 
brought enough apparel with him for common 
wear ; but he needed a serviceable suit for a change. 
This, with the necessary boots and shoes, a warm 
jacket for cold weather, and some additional sup- 
plies which his enlistment in the company required 
to be bought, made quite a hole in the eighty dol- 
lars which he had put into the common fund. 

" Never mind, youngster," said the good-natured 
Hi. " I allow we'll have enough for all hands to 
get through on ; so as you pitch in and do your 
share of work, we sha' n't find no fault." 

Johnny declared his willingness to do all he could 
for the benefit of the company, whether it was pick- 
ing up fuel, washing dishes, or driving the team. 
He was quite a man now, he thought, though only 
a little fellow. For was n't he bound for California 
to make his fortune ? And he was going with his 
own resources, too, and could earn his way. This 
thought made the boy cheerful and happy ; the 
color came again into his cheeks ; he grew merry 
and frolicsome ; and, before the last days of prep- 
aration were over, the poor outcast was, as Hi said, 
" right peart." 

They had delayed at the river a long time. 
There were many things to be disposed of, and 
their places supplied with articles which were more 
needed. There were preventives against scurvy to 
be bought, for they had heard that some emigrants 
ahead of them had suffered from that dreadful 
disease, just as sailors do on the ocean when their 
vegetables and fresh provisions give out. So the 
boys laid in a supply of dried apples and vinegar, 
and traded away some of the stuff of which they 
had an excess. Then parts of the wagon had to be 
changed for the oxen, as they were now to make 
the voyage across the plains with cattle instead of 

One bright May morning, they took down their 
tent, packed their bedding, loaded the wagon, 
yoked up the cattle, and began their long; long 
tramp across the continent. Numerous other emi- 
grant trains were stretching their way over the 
rolling prairies to the westward, and the undulating 
road was dotted with the white-covered wagons of 
their old neighbors of the canvas settlements bv 

the Missouri River. Looking behind, they saw, 
with a little pang of regret, the well-beaten spot 
where they had made their home so long. Around 
that place still lingered a few emigrants, who waved 
their hats to them by way of cheer, as the long 
procession of adventurers wound its way over the 
ridges. Beyond and behind them was the flowing 
river; the bluffs which give their name to the town 
bounded the horizon, and still beyond was the past 
life of these youtig fellows, with all their struggles ; 
there was home. 

Before them lay the heart of the continent with 
its mysteries, difficulties, and dangers. They 
tramped on right bravely, for beneath the blue 
horizon that lured them forward were wealth, fame, 
adventure, and — what these bright young spirits 
most longed for — opportunities for making their 
own way in the world. At any rate, they had 
turned their backs on civilization and home. 

Their fortitude was tested somewhat severely 
during their very first week on the track across 
the continent. They expected disagreeable things, 
and they found them. They had been traveling 
through a rolling country, destitute of timber and 
dotted with only a few bunches of brushwood by 
the creeks. Barney, Arthur, and Tom took turns 
at driving the team. Mont strode on ahead. Hi 
and Johnny '"changed off" with riding Old Jim, 
for whose back a saddle had been " traded " for at 
the Bluffs. The young emigrants were in first-rate 
spirits, and when a light rain came up at night, 
they laughed blithely over the prospect of soon 
getting used to the " hardships " of which they had 
been so often warned. It was discouraging work, 
however, cooking supper ; for, by the time they 
had camped, the rain fell in torrents. They got 
their camp-stove into the tent, and, by running out 
its one joint of pipe through the open entrance, 
they managed to start a fire. More smoke went 
into the tent than out of it, for the wind had veered 
about and blew directly into it. Then they decided 
to strike the tent and change it around so as to face 
to the leeward. This was a difficult job to do while 
the rain fell and wind blew. But the boys packed 
their camp stuff together as well as they could, and 
took down the tent. 

'" Hold on tight, boys ! " shouted Barnard, cheer- 
ily, for the canvas was flapping wildly in the wind, 
and threatened to fly away before it could be 
secured. Arty held up one pole and Barnard the 
other, while Mont, Hi, and Tom ran around to 
pin the canvas to the earth, Johnny following with 
the bag of tent-pins. Just then a tremendous gust 
came, and away flew the tent like a huge balloon, 
jerking Tom head over heels as it went. Poor 
little Johnny clung to it desperately, having caught 
hold of one of the ropes as it went whirling over 

i8 7 6.J 



his head. He was dragged a short distance and gave 
it up, his hands being cut and torn by the line. 

"Stop her! stop her!" yelled Hi, and away 
they all ran after the flying canvas. The cattle 
were cowering under the lee of a few bushes across 
the road, and the apparition of the collapsed tent 
coming over their heads, startled them so that they 
ran wildly in all directions. The cow was caught 
by the horns, a fold of the tent-cloth having been 
entangled on them, and she set off, frantically bel- 
lowing, across the prairie. The canvas by this 

•• We can get a good fire in the stove," said 
Mont, sagaciously, " and keep moving it about 
until we dry the worst of it ; and, when it stops 
raining, it will drain off a great deal. But it does 
not look much like holding up," he added, as he 
looked out at the sheets of rain. " And if it don't 
hold up, we may as well not go to bed at all." 

Indeed, the prospect was rather gloomy, and the 
young emigrants began to think themselves early 
introduced to the disagreeable part of their trip. 
They managed to keep up a roaring fire in their 


time was so wet and heavy that it could not be 
dragged far, and, when the boys came up, poor 
Moll\ r was a prisoner. They rescued their fugitive 
house, and, in sorry plight, took it back to where 
their camp was now exposed to a pelting rain. 

" Aint this fun, Arty ? " said Hi, grimly, when 
they were once more under cover. 

" Fun alive ! " replied Arty ; " and so long as we 
have a roof over us for the night, we are in great 
luck. But how we are ever to get supper is more 
than I know." 


pper ! 

retorted Barnard. 

I 'd like to 

know where we are going to sleep to-night. Every 
inch of ground is sopping wet, and no fire that we 
can build will dry it." 

camp-stove, however, and the air in the tent was 
dry and warm. They made tea, and fried their 
meat, and, with dry crackers, secured a tolerable 
meal. By midnight the rain abated and ceased 
flowing under the canvas. They then lay down 
on the damp blankets, and slept as best they might. 
Toward morning Arty awoke, and, hearing the rain 
on the canvas roof, reached out his hand and found 
the ground near by covered with water. Water 
was everywhere around him. He lay in a puddle 
which had accumulated under him. At first, he 
thought he would turn over and find a dry spot. 
But he immediately discovered that that would not 
be a good plan. He had warmed the water next 
him with the natural heat of his bodv. To turn 




over was to find a colder place. So he kept still 
and slept again as soundly as if he were not lying 
in a small pond. 

They were wakened after sunrise by the sound 
of wagons driving by. Jumping up from their 
damp beds, the young emigrants found themselves 
somewhat bedraggled and unkempt. But the rain 
had ceased, the sun was shining brightly, and what 
discomfort can long withstand the influence of a 
fair day, sunshine, and a warm wind ? 

The cattle, fastened up the night before to the 
wagon-wheels, were lowing for freedom ; and the 
boys were at once ready to begin preparations for 
another day's journey. They spread their bedding 
and spare clothing in the sunshine, brought out 
their camp-stove, built a fire, and had a jolly break- 
fast with hot biscuits and some of the little luxuries 
of camp fare. 

All that day the boys traveled with their blankets 
spread over the wagon-top, in order to dry them in 
the hot sun ; but not one of the party complained 
of the discomforts of the previous night, nor 
showed any sign of being any worse for sleeping 
in the rain. 

" It gets me, Mont," said Hi Fender, " that a 
city feller, like you, should put up with such an 
uncommon hard night without growling." 

''Oh, that's nothing when you get used to it," 
said Mont, lightly. 

" But you are getting used to it sooner than I 
am," replied Barnard, with admiration for the 
young city fellow's pluck. 

" There aint much such accommodations in Bos- 
ton, I allow ?" said Hi. " No sleepin' out in canvas 
tents, with the water creeping under your blankets, 
in that village, is there ?" 

" Well, no ; but we cannot bring city ways out 
on the plains, you know, Hi ; and as long as we 
have a canvas roof over us, we ought to be satisfied 
and thankful. By the way, I wonder how those 
Pike County fellows got on last night. They intend 
to sleep in their wagon when the)' have reduced 
their load, but they sleep on the ground now. 
Must have found it a little damp last night." 

Barnard thought that Bush, with his heifer and 
go-cart, would be worse off than anybody they 
knew. Bush was a jolly emigrant, traveling all 
alone with a hand-cart fixed up with shafts, into 
which was harnessed a young cow. He had quar- 
reled with his partner at Council Bluffs, and had 
gone off in a fit of disgust. His entire worldly 
wealth was packed into the little cart, with one or 
two sacks of flour, some ''side-meat," beans, and 
coffee. His cooking apparatus consisted of a frying- 
pan and a tin pot, in which latter useful utensil he 
made his coffee and cooked everything that could 
not be cooked in his frying-pan. 

" I don't believe Bush put in much time sing- 
ing last night," said Tom. " If his fiddle was n't 
drowned out, he was, I '11 just bet." 

" There he is now ! " said Arty, and as he spoke 
they saw Bush's tall form stalking beside his queer 
little team, and rising over a swell of the prairie, 
just ahead. 

At camping-time that night they overtook Bush, 
who was as gay and light-spirited as ever. He 
hailed the boys with heartiness and begged the 
privilege of baking a cake of dough in their camp- 

•'The fact is, boys," he explained, "me and 
Sukey had a rough time of it last night, and I 
guess a hot corn-dodger will help us both mightily. 
Hey, Suke ! " he said lovingly, for Bush and his 
vicious little cow were on very good terms. 

" Rain ? " he said in answer to the boys' inquiries. 
"Rain? Oh, no, I guess not. It didn't rain at 
all worth mentioning. It jest came down on the 
run. Well, it did. I crawled under the go-cart, 
where the water wa' n't more than a foot deep. It 
was n't dry quarters ; but I could have got along 
as gay as you please only for my legs. They 're so 
all-fired lengthy that they stuck out and got wet. 
When I pulled 'em in, my head stuck out, and 
when I pulled my head in agin, my legs stuck out. 
Pity about them legs, aint it, boys ? " he added, 
looking down at his canvas-covered limbs. " How- 
somever, I thought of you chaps. I 'm used to it, 
but you Boston fellers aint seasoned yet. I was 
camping by myself over behind the divide, to keep 
out of the wet, and when I saw your tent get up 
and dust, I started to lend you a hand. But you 
corraled the pesky thing before I could get to you." 

" Much obleeged, I 'm sure," said Hi. " But 
we caught her on the critter's head afore she went 

'" Yes, yes, a tent's a mighty onhandy thing, I 
do believe. Good enough for them that can't get 
along without it ; but, as for me, as the revolu- 
tionary feller said, gimme liberty or gimme death. 
I 'd rather sleep out o' doors." 

"Queer feller, that Bush," said Hi, when they 
were squatted about their camp-table at supper- 
time. " He 's tough as sole-leather and chipper 'n 
a cricket. And he allows to go clean through to 
Californy with that 'ere go-cart and heifer. Why 
the Mormons will steal him, his cow and his cart, 
and all, if he ever gets so far as Salt Lake." 

" They '11 be smart, then, for he sleeps with both 
eyes open," said Barnard, who admired Bush very 

They were camped in a low, flat bottom, by the 
river Platte. Tall cotton-woods fringed the river- 
bank, on the north side of which the emigrant road 
then ran. Here were wood, water, and grass in 




plenty ; and at this generous camping-ground 
many emigrants pitched their tents for the night. 
After supper was over, the boys strolled out among 
the camps and enjoyed the novel sight. The emi- 
grants had now got into the ways of the plains, 
— were doing their own cooking and washing, 
had put on their roughest manners and roughest 
clothes, and were already beginning to talk about 
the Indians. The Cheyenncs, it was said, were 
very troublesome just beyond Fort Laramie ; and 
it was reported that one party of emigrants had 
been attacked near the Point of Rocks and all 
hands killed. 

At one camp-fire where our boys lingered, Bush 
was the center of a large party, to whom he was 
singing his one great song, "Lather and Shave." 
It was a famous song of many verses — ninety-nine, 
Bush said ; but he never had time to sing them all, 
though often invited to give them. His violin had, 
so far, survived all misadventures and furnished 
lively music for the company. One handsome 
young fellow, with a tremendous voice, sang a ditty 
about emigrating to the gold mines, of which the 
refrain was : 

" Ho ! ho ! and away we go, 
Digging up the gold on the Sacramento ! " 

All the by-standers and loungers joined in this 
chorus with spirit and emphasis, the last syllable of 
Sacramento being shot out with a will — " Toe ! " 

At another camp, they found a forlorn little 
woman dandling a child on her knee, sitting on a 
wagon-tongue, while her husband was trying to 
get supper under her directions. The fire would 
not burn, the man was awkward, and his patience 
seemed clean gone as he finally squatted back on 
the ground and caught his breath, after blowing at 
the fire until he was red in the face. 

" Yes, we 've had a powerful bad streak o' 
luck," he complained. "First, she took sick at 
the Bluffs," he said, jerking his head toward the 
woman on the wagon-tongue. That kep' us there 
nigh onto a month ; and my pard, he got out of 
patience and lit out and left us. Then the young 
one up and had the cholery yesterday, and we 
broke down in that thar slew just beyond Papes's, 
and we had to double up teams twicet that day. 
And now then this 'ere blamed fire wont burn, and 
we be agoin' to Californy. We be," he added, 
with great sarcasm. " I never could build a fire ; 
hit's woman's work, hit is! Oh, look at yer, 
smolderin' and smudgin' thar ! " he continued, ad- 
dressing the sulky fire. With a sudden burst of 
rage, he kicked the smoking embers to the right 
and left with his heavy boot, and said, " Blarst 
Californy ! " 

" Here, let me try," said Tom. " I 'm right 
smart at fire-bildin' ; " and the boy gathered the 

half-charred embers together, and deftly fanned a 
flame from them by wafting his hat before the 
coals, into which he poked some dry stems and 
grass. The fire recovered itself cheerily, and the 
man looked down on Tom's stooping figure with a 
sort of unwilling admiration. Arthur did not like 
the looks of a husband who seemed so indifferent 
to his wife and baby. 

" Here, give me the baby," said he ; " 1 '11 tend 
it while you get your supper. And, Mister, you 
had better look after your cattle. I see they 've 
got all snarled up with that ox-chain." 

" Orat the cattle ! " said the man; and he went 
off to swear at the poor beasts which had managed 
to turn their yokes and worry themselves generally 
into a tangle, while waiting for their master to take 
care of them for the night. 

" Don't mind him," sighed the woman, relin- 
quishing the sick baby to his volunteer nurse. 
"Don't mind him. He's got a right smart of a 
temper, and he do get contrairywise when things 
goes contrairywise, and the good Lord knows they 
have gone contrairywise ever since we left the 
States. Now trot the young one easy-like, if he 
hollers, and I '11 just rattle up some supper for my 
ole man." 

Arty held the baby as tenderly as he could, softly 
moving up and down on his knee the unpleasant- 
looking feather pillow on which it was laid. A tall 
young girl came around from behind the wagon ; 
looked at the emigrant's wife, who was kneading 
biscuit, kneeling on the ground ; looked at Arthur, 
who was crooning a little song to the sick baby ; 
and then she remarked: " Goodness, gracious me!" 

" Nance ! " said Arthur, looking up. 

" Yes, it's Nance," retorted the tall young girl, 
with some asperity. " Leastways, I 'm called sich 
by folks that have n't got no more manners than 
they have room for." 

" Beg pardon, Miss Nancy. But you surprised 
me so, you know." 

" I suppose you don't allow I 'm surprised. Oh, 
no, not the leastest bit. You a-tending baby out 
here on the perarie ! Howsomever, I like it, I like 
it ! I declare to gracious, I do ! " she added in a 
milder tone. "It's just what boys are fit for. 
Hope you 've learned to make bread by this time. 
Scalded their flour, the ornery critters ! Oh, my ! '' 
and, overcome by the recollection of that first great 
experiment of the boys when in Iowa, the tall 
young girl sat down on the wagon-tongue and 
doubled herself up again. 

" Never mind," she said, disengaging herself 
from her laugh. " If you'll come over to our camp, 
I '11 give you some yeast — real hop-yeast ; brought 
it all the way from Ioway myself. It 's good enough 
to bust the cover of your camp-kettle off." 




" Your camp ! Are you going to California ? " 
asked Arthur, with surprise. 

" Coin' to Californy ! Of course we be. What 
else do you suppose we'd be cam pin' out here on 
the Platte, miles and miles away from home, for?" 

" But how did you pass us ?" 

" Could n't say. Dad, he allowed he would n't 
stop at the Bluffs more 'n one day. Oh, he 's got 
the gold fever just awful ! " 

"Was he thinking of going to California when 
we passed your place in Iowa ? " 

" Could n't say. He seen the folks piling by on 
the emigrant road, bound to the gold mines. He 
used to set on the fence and swap lies with 'em by 
the hour, and ma just hollerin' at him from the 
back-door all the while. Oh, my ! was n't she 
mad, though ! " 

" Did n't she want to come ? " 

" Not at first ; but she got to talking with some 
of the women-folks on the road, and then she and 
dad talked gold night and day. They jest got wild. 
So one day, dad, he let the place, picked up his 
traps, bundled us into the wagon, and here we be." 

"How do you find it, as far as you've got?" 
asked Tom, who by this time had become very 
much interested in Nance's story. 

" Pretty tolerable- like. How 's yerself ? " 

" Oh, it 's pretty good fun, all but washing 
dishes," replied Tom, bashfully. 

" Washin' dishes ! " retorted the girl, with great 
scorn. "And you call yer handful of tin plates 
and things washin' dishes. Don't I wish you had 
to do up the dishes I had at home in Ioway ! Oh, 
it's real persimmons, this, — just nothing to do. 
Barefooted, you see," and Nance put out a brown 
foot, to show that she had left her shoes with 

"Where's your other fellers?" she asked, 
" specially that one that scalded his flour ? " 

Arthur explained that they were about the camps, 
having tarried where Bush was playing his violin 
for a " stag dance," as it was called, down by the 

" Well, you come over to our camp to-morrow, 
early, and I '11 give you some real hop-yeast. It 's 
worth a hull raft of bakin' powder and self-risers. 
We 're off at sun-up. So long ! " And Nance was 

" Right smart chance of a gal, that," commented 
the emigrant, whose anger had cooled, and who 
was sitting on an ox-yoke contentedly smoking his 

" So Miss Sunbonnet is going to California, is 
she ? " said Barnard, when the boys related their 
interview with that young woman. 

" Yes," replied Arthur, remembering Nance's 
brown foot; "she's going a-digging up the gold 
on the Sacramen — toe ! " 

(To be continued.) 


By George Parsons Lathrop. 

COME, children, come ! we must hasten on. 

For still it 's a long, long way ; 
A happy long way, ere our journey be done- 

We are journeying through the day. 

The day ! what a wonderful thing it is — 

So full of love and delight, 
From the time of the mother's morning-kiss 

Till the kiss that comes with "Good-night!' 

Think ! here is another day begun. 
So close on the one that 's gone ; 

And to-morrow will be another one, 
As soon as the east can dawn. 

And it leads from the east, and goes to the west. 

And follow it we will ; 
Though, whether we work, or whether we rest, 

We stay in the same place still. 

For here it begins, and here it ends, 

All on the sun's highway ; 
We need not part from home and friends, 

To journey through the day. 

i8 7 6.] 




By Annie J. Mackintosh. 

Part II. 
You remember that in our last paper we noticed 
some of the differences between plants having their 

j origin in two-lobed seeds and those growing from 
undivided seeds. But there are other differences 

. just as great, and as strongly marked. If you ex- 
amine a twig from any ordinary tree, you will find 
that the outside covering may be easily removed, 
and seems to be quite distinct from the wood. I 
need not tell you that this covering is called bark ; 

1 and you know, too, that the trees that grow in 
your neighborhood are all provided with this outer 

t coat. 

But examine a piece of straw. You would not 
think for a moment of calling its covering bark ; 
it is much more like a very thin skin or coating of 

Now, if there are leaves on the various stems 
which we are examining, you will find that those 
which are parallel-veined all belong to the stems 
which have no bark, while the net-veined leaves 
are attached to the bark-covered branches. 

Vol. III. — 11. 

Thus we have another difference between the 
two great divisions of plants. Let us see if we can- 
not discover still another. Take a portion of your 
corn-stalk and split it lengthwise : you find that it 
is stringy or fibrous. Examine a piece of wood in 
the same way, and you will see that it is solid. Now 
take a cross-slice from the corn, and another from 
one of the branches, and let us compare them. In 
the corn you find nothing but the skin-covering, 
and the ends of the fibers, like little specks, scat- 
tered through a spongy substance called cellular 
tissue (see Fig. 2. next page) ; while in the other 
slice (Fig. 1) you see first the bark, then one or more 
layers of solid wood ; and in the middle you find 
the heart-wood or pith, so that the slice presents 
the appearance of a number of rings arranged 
around the center. By counting these rings in 
trees which have been cut down, you may judge 
of the number of years which have elapsed since 
they first showed themselves above ground, for the 
tree adds a new ring or layer to its growth every 
year. Such plants are called " exogenous," or 




outward-growing plants, because the new layer is 
formed just within the bark, and outside those of 
previous years. The fibrous plants grow by addi- 
tions to their inward surface, thus pushing the 


older parts outside. This class is entitled " endo- 
genous," which means inward-growing. 

Did you ever think that the plants not only grow 
but live? A very different life from ours, to be 
sure, yet resembling it in some points, and in none 
more than in the necessity for food. This food 
consists of earthy matter, gases and moisture, and 
these three combined constitute sap. The organs 
employed in providing food are the roots and 
leaves. The former take in earthy matter and 
moisture from the earth, while the latter obtain 
moisture and gases from the atmosphere. You 
may see this earthy matter, which is the solid part 
of the plant, very easily, if you live where wood is 
used as fuel. In the burning, the heat drives into 
the air both gas and moisture, leaving behind only 
the earthy matter, which we call ashes. 

The stem of the plant is composed of minute 
cells or cavities, too small to be seen by the naked 
eye. These cells may be compared to little boxes, 
and you must try to imagine them piled one above 
the other, the bottom of one cell forming the 
top of the one just below. If you will remember 
that these separations are thinner than the sides of 
the cells, you will understand how the moisture, 
taken up by the rootlets, is forced from the cells 
below to those above, traveling thus until it reaches 
the leaves. 

These too, as I have already said, assist in pro- 
viding for the support of the plant. If you examine 
a common leaf under the microscope, you will 
find that the whole surface, more especially that of 
the under part, is covered with small holes, or 
breathing pores, which are said to open or close, 

as the conditions of the atmosphere prove favorable 
or otherwise, to the collection of food-material. 

When the moisture and earthy matter, taken up 
by the roots, have reached the leaves, they are' 
mixed with the air and moisture which the leaves 
are constantly drawing in ; thus mixed it forms sap, 
and passing back again through the plant, nourishes 
and builds up the parts which require it. If the 
supply be greater than the demand, that which is 
unused is carried down to the roots, where it mixes 
with the new material and passes again to the 
leaves. Thus a constant circulation is kept up 
during the summer months ; but as fall approaches, 
the movement becomes slower and slower, until, 
when winter has really come, the plant sleeps, like 
the dormouse and hedgehog, until gentle showers 
and warm sunshine whisper that it is time to wake ; 
then the sap begins again to flow, the buds expand 
and burst, and we know that spring has really 

Now we shall have something to say of flowers. 
Collect specimens of as many different varieties as 
possible, but among them try to have a lily of some 
sort, as it is much easier to examine the parts in a 
large flower. In addition to these, we shall require 
a knife, a strong pin, and the magnifying glass. 

Take a lily, then. What gives it its beauty ? 
The leaves, of course. Well, these leaves taken 
together, just as they are on the flower, are called 
the corolla, which means crown ; if we speak of a 
single leaf, it is called a petal. With your knife 
remove the corolla, being careful not to injure the 
heart inside. Having cut away the crown, you find 
inside a circle of stems (Fig. 3, a, a), surmounted 

mMk MM ' s \ ^ ^ yg^s; 


ifi 11 mm 







by oblong tips which are covered with yellow pow- 
der or dust. These stems are called stamens, and 
consist of two parts ; the filament, which is the 
stalk, and the anther, the part which holds the 
dust. Remove some of the latter and place it 

i8 7 6.] 



under the glass, when you will find that it is com- 
posed of rounded grains ; this dust is called pollen. 
Now take a tip and examine it carefully through 


the glass, turning it round with the pin ; you see 
now that it is not a knob, but a little bag of skin, 
which seems to have been burst. This bag. or sac, 
is called the anther, and its duty is to hold the 
pollen until perfectly ripe, when it bursts, covering 
itself with the dust. 

You have now remaining a greenish stem, at the 
end of which is a berry-like enlargement ; this stem 
is called the pistil (Fig. 3, b), and the enlarged 
portion is the ovary (Fig. 3. c), which holds the 
seeds. If you will, without separating them, cut 
the pistil and ovary lengthwise, and put them un- 
der the glass, you will be able to see plainly the 
seeds neatly packed in the ovary (Fig. 3, d) ; you 
will also observe that the pistil is a hollow tube 
leading down to the ovary. 

We have now learned the names of the parts in 
the flower which we have been examining, but the 
lily is not a complete flower ; it lacks one part which 
you may find in some others of your specimens, 
as the rose, pink, morning-glory, &c. We refer 
to the green leaves outside of the corolla. This 
circle is called the calyx (Fig. 4, a), which means 
" flower-cup ; " though ordinarily green, it is some- 
times bright-colored, as in the case of the fuchsia. 

We will make a list of the parts, so that you may 
memorize them more easily : 

1. Calyx. (Fig. 4, a.) 

2. Corolla. (Fig. 4, b.) 

3. Stamens; filament, anthers, pollen. (Fig. 3, 
", a.) 

4. Pistil; ovary, seeds. (Fig. 3, b, c, d.) 

A complete flower will present all of these sev- 

eral parts, but many are lacking in one or more of 
them. Some, as the lily, have no calyx, others 
have no corolla — mignonette for instance ; in some 
species the stamens are found in one flower and the 
pistil in another, as in Indian corn. Others, still, 
have all the stamen-bearing flowers on one plant, 
while another of the same species produces flowers 
containing pistils only ; of this class the red maple 
is given by Prof. Gray as an illustration. There 
are also flowers which produce neither stamens nor 
pistils, of which the snow-ball will be a familiar ex- 

You already know that the seeds (Fig. 3, d), from 
the beginning of the flower, are packed away in the 
ovary (Fig. 3, c), but these seeds will be perfectly 
useless unless a portion of the pollen is allowed to 
come in contact with them ; by useless we mean, 
that if planted they would never grow. But how 
is this accomplished ? Touch the pistil, it is sticky ; 
now, the pollen being very light, is dislodged by 
every passing breeze, and some of it is sure to fall 
upon the pistil, when it sends down through the 
tube a root-like thread, which, touching the seeds, 
makes them fertile, in some way which we do not 
understand. From this you will learn that the 
portions necessary to make the seeds productive 
are the stamens and pistils. In flowers which con- 
tain both you will observe that, if they are upright 
upon their stems, the pistil is apt to be shorter 
than the stamens, while if they droop, the reverse 
is the case ; this is to enable the pollen more readily 
to reach the pistil. In cases where the stamens 
and pistils are separated, Dame Nature sometimes 
employs the wind and sometimes the insects which 
crawl over the flowers as 
her messengers ; the pol- 
len sticks to their legs and 
bodies, and they carry it 
very nicely for a short 
distance. But for long 
journeys the wind is much 
better, and cases have 
been mentioned of pollen 
traveling in this way for 
hundreds of miles. 

Aftar the pollen has 
reached the seeds, time 
only is required to enable 
them to ripen, so that we 
have now completed the 
circle : from the seed back 
to it again. But do not imagine that you know all 
about the subject. If, however, you have learned 
enough to prompt you to notice and experiment 
for yourselves, your time will not have been wasted. 








{With illustrations by J. B.) 
BY M. S. B. 


I WONDER if anybody in this city remembered 
that last Wednesday was Snibbuggledyboozledom's 

birthday. I guess 
nobody thought a 
word about it until 
the next day, which 
was a great pity, 
for everybody ought, 
to have remember- 
ed it and turned 
out, and shouted 
and fired guns, and 
made speeches and 
processions ; and I 
would write and tell 
you all about what 
they did. But as 
they did n't cele- 
brate the day at all, 
I can only write what they did n't do. 

In the first place then, we were not waked up be- 
fore light by a crowd of three or four hundred boys 
shouting and firing guns and fire-crackers' and par- 
lor-match pistols, and yelling, " Hurrah for Abbott, 
seven years old ! " " Three cheers for Jakey, seven 
years old ! " Then at sunrise the big bell in the 
fire-tower did not strike seven times: " Boo-oong! 
boo-oong ! boo-oong ! boo-oong ! boo-oong ! boo- 
oong ! boo-oong ! " and all the other bells in the 
steeples did n't strike in 
with a tremendous up- 
roar : " Ding-dong-ding ! 
ding-dong-ding! ding- 
dong-ding ! " just as loud 
as they ever could n't 
sound. What a clatter 
they did n't make ! 

And all the flags in the 
city were not flying all day from sunrise till dark. 
And the boys all over the city did n't keep at 
work every minute of the day popping off fire- 
crackers and torpedoes, and little toy cannon that 
would shoot off a shot about as big as this: ^\ 
and used a nail for a ramrod. Sometimes *t0 
they would n't light the crackers and throw them 
up in the air, to see them go off before they 
came down again ; and sometimes they would n't 
hold them out in little iron pistols, to look like 


shooting ; and sometimes they would n't bury them 
in the ground, and then touch them off, so as to 
throw the dirt up all around like a mine ; and 
sometimes they would n't put a fire-cracker on a lit- 
tle chip (for a boat) and sail it off on the water, and 
light the cracker to see it blow up the boat. I tell 
you they did n't have a splendid time, and every 
boy's father did n't give him ten cents, all for his 
own, to buy peanuts or candy, or anything else he 

And then in the afternoon there was n't a grand 
procession three miles long, with lots of soldiers in 
bright-colored uniforms, and brass bands, each one 
with a drum-major with a tall bearskin cap and a 
gold-headed staff, and Masons with queer little 
white aprons, and firemen with their engines and 
hose-carts and ladder-trucks, and the mayor and 
common council, and three trained monkeys on as 
many little ponies, and an elephant and two camels, 
and a clumsy rhinoceros with his horn on his nose 
(a very ugly nose too), and thirteen 
ministers in carriages. And they 
did n't go through all the streets 
and up to the park, and then the 
mayor did n't make a grand speech 
two hours long, telling how grati- 
fied he wasn't to assist in the celebration of such 
a day, and what an honor he did n't consider it to 
the city to be the residence of two such great folks 
as himself and Snibbuggledyboozledom. 

And then they did n't have a grand display of 
fire-works — great rockets that went s-s-s-izz away 
up in the air and then sent down lots of red and 
purple and green stars, and wheels that spun 
around and around with a whiz-z-z and threw off 
all manner of beautiful sparks, and Roman can- 
dles that burned with sparks and threw up with a 
" pop " brilliant white and colored balls. And at 
the end they did n't send up an enormous fire-bal- 
loon, thirty-five feet across, with red and white and 
blue stripes up and down it, and " Snibbuggledy- 
boozledom, 1875," in large gold letters reaching all 
around it. And it did n't sail, sail, sail away, shin- 
ing at first like a great big moon, and sailing, sail- 
ing, sailing further off till it looked no bigger than 
a star, and then sailing, sailing, sailing away till we 
could n't see it at all. And I don't believe it ever 
came down at all, anywhere. Because, you see, 

n8 7 6.] 




if it did n't ever go up, it could n't ever come 
down ! 

And that was the end of the things that did n't 
happen on the boy's birthday. Only the next day the 
papers did n't have lots of news about it — how one 
man did n't have his hat knocked off by a rocket 
that went along straight instead of going up in the 
air, and fifteen boys and three girls didn't get their 
fingers and faces burned with the fire-crackers and 
things, and ten horses were not frightened and 

did n't run away, smashing nine wagons and bark- 
ing fifteen trees, and five houses were not set on 
fire by sparks and crackers, and the usual number 
of such mishaps did not take place. And there 
were not about fifteen thousand pints of peanuts 
sold, and five thousand glasses of soda water, and 
a corresponding amount of other good things. 

And then (this part did really happen) everybody 
went to bed and went to sleep, just as if it had 
been any common day. 

By J. H. Woodbury. 

We were frozen in, within a bight of the coast in 
Camden Bay; to the northward of all our northern 
possessions ; within the Arctic Circle, where there 
is one long winter night for months, unbroken by 
a rising sun. 

We had lingered too long on that northern shore, 
where we had been cruising through the short 
summei season for whale-oil to feed the lamps at 

Home 1 Home ! The full meaning of the word 
came to us, as we sat round our own dim-burning 
lamps down in our well-protected quarters in the 

steerage and talked of the loved ones whom we had 
left there. Should we ever return to them? Yes; 
every one believed it, and we were still cheerful. 

The sun had been long gone, and it was Christ- 
mas-time ; and because it was Christmas-time we 
thought the more of those we had left at home. 
Santa Claus, too, and the stockings he used to fill 
when we were there, came to our minds ; and the 
sleigh-rides, the skating, coasting — and the dear girls 
who used to be such a help to us in enjoying it all — 
we remembered them you may well believe ! — and 
we talked of them as well. Every man — of course, 




we were all men, though some were a little under 
age — told about his own particular girl ; and if you 
could have heard us, you would have thought each 
one had an angel at home, sure ! You can't im- 
agine how lovely the girls become, so far away ! 
Just go beyond the Arctic Circle and get frozen in, 
and you '11 know all about it. 

The girls — the dear girls ! — we could only talk 
about them ; but that was some comfort. We were 
all resolved to carry home something nice for them, 
at least, and to that end we had been " scrimshaw- 
ing " whalebone ever since the sun had set. 

I don't think you will find scrimshawing in the 
dictionary, for the word is n't used much on shore. 
It means, cutting, etching, scratching, carving — 
making all sorts of pretty things out of whalebone. 
We had made jagging-knives, and things to keep 
the girls straight, and things which we had no 
names for, and were still working away on our 
whalebone " fixins " when Christmas came. 

I will tell you how we were " fixed." The ship 
lay not far from the shore, within a bight of the 
coast, as I have said, so that there was a semicircle 
of snow-covered hills in full view from our decks ; 
the nearest being hardly more than a mile distant. 
Although we had no sun, the moon was with us, 
round and full, at Christmas-time, and the snow- 
covered hills glistened in its light. We often 
walked as far as the hills, and sometimes over them, 
to give our limbs the exercise they needed ; but as 
yet had never found anything very attractive in 
that direction. 

We suffered less from the cold than you might 
suppose. The ship was well provided with all sorts 
of warm clothing, and the captain gave us all the 
extra garments we needed, at the ship's expense. 
The quarters of the foremast hands had been 
changed from the forecastle to the steerage — the 
space in which had been sufficiently enlarged to 
accommodate them as well as the boat-steerers — 
and all, but the officers in the cabin, now lived 
there together. The cabin was separated from the 
steerage only by a bulkhead. 

The cabin contained a stove, in which a fire was 
kept always going, giving that apartment a mod- 
erate degree of warmth. The galley range had 
been lowered into the steerage, where it stood a 
little to one side of the hatchway, and having 
plenty of fuel, consisting in part of whale-scraps, 
a fire was kept constantly going in that also. Be- 
sides, the walls of our apartment were lined all 
around with sails — of which we had a large supply, 
besides those we had unbent from the yards after 
the ice had fastened upon us — and all around, out- 
side, the ship had been banked with snow, almost 
as high as the rail. Indeed, we did not suffer 
much with cold ; but the moistt 'e accumulated in 

our close quarters to such an extent as to cause 
some discomfort from that source. 

The few light duties we had to perform occupied 
but a small portion of our time, and we were al- 
lowed to pass the remainder of it pretty much in 
our own way. It was almost worth while to be 
frozen in, for one reason at least : we were not obliged 
to turn out every four hours to stand a watch on 
deck. Still we had regular hours for sleep, and 
were called out at an appointed time. We still felt 
that we were under our captain's control, though 
his authority was much relaxed. 

After all, it was not such a^ery bad thing to be 
frozen in, except for its keeping us so much longer 
from home, and from all the world besides our- 
selves. On the whole, the time passed rather pleas- 
antly. Having plenty of whalebone, both white 
and black, and tools to work it with — and withal a 
turning-lathe — we passed more time in making 
fancy articles for home than in any other way. 

But as Christmas drew near there was some talk 
about a visit from Santa Claus. From certain in- 
dications he might reasonably be expected, and it 
was even proposed that we should all hang up our 
stockings. Several of our number were making 
caps, mittens, mufflers, and such things, with which 
they were taking unusual pains ; more than they 
would be likely to if they were going to wear the 
articles themselves ; and this was what suggested to 
us that Santa Claus might possibly come. 

Uncle Jim, our oldest man, was inclined to laugh 
at the idea, however. He was of the opinion that 
Santa Claus would n't come away up there just to 
please a few half-frozen whalemen ; but if he should 
come, he would want something bigger than stock- 
ings to put his nick-nacks in. He advised hanging 
up our trousers, with the bottoms of the legs tied 
together with rope-yarns. 

" Most likely," said he, "if he brings anything, 
it will be pickles, and old cheese and whisky," — 
Uncle Jim was a dry old chap — " or something of 
that sort." 

Having no sun, we could only tell by the moon, 
and the captain's chronometer, when Christmas 
came, but we were ready to usher it in. Every- 
body was so wide awake that Santa Claus could 
not possibly have got into the steerage without 
being seen; and for that reason, as we supposed, 
he did not come. But we were as merry, perhaps, 
as though he had been there. We rang the fore- 
castle bell for an hour, and ran up the stars and 
stripes at the mizzen peak, and should have fired a 
salute with the two old guns on the quarter-deck, 
had they not been so filled with frost that there 
was danger of bursting them. While we were 
making all the noise we could, the cook, with an- 
other man and a boy to help him, began to get our 




Christmas dinner ; to which we looked forward 
with great expectations. 

We had running and leaping matches and other 
games in the open air, till we were tired of them, 
and then we went down again into the steerage, 
and, while the dinner was cooking, we had songs, 
speeches, and theatricals. Booth was n't there, 
but we had Jack Short, probably the best star actor 
at that time within the Arctic Circle. Short made 
an awful Richard. Taking the first man he could 
lay hands on for a horse, he made the rest of us fly 
to our bunks for safety ; and then we could n't help 
laughing to see the black cook's eyes stick out as 
he stood behind his coppers stabbing at Short with 
his longest beef-fork to keep him off. 

In the midst of our fun, a strange voice hailed 
from on deck, and we all tumbled up to see who 
was there and what was the matter. 

Behold! there stood Santa Claus himself! It 
could be no other ; it was just like the pictures we 
had all seen of him, and every one recognized him 
at once. He spoke to Short, whom lie seemed to 
recognize as our leading man, in a voice that was 
thick with frost. 

" I 'm a little late," said he ; " but I was sure of 
getting here before sunrise, anyhow, so I thought 
I 'd attend to all the others first. Mighty hard 
driving up this way. Broke a trace, crossing Win- 
nipeg, and had to stop to mend it. Upset all my 
traps, too, coming down the Saddle-Back Mount- 
ains. But I 'm here at last, all right, and if you 've 
got any oats I 'd like to give my team a feed before 
I begin to unload." 

" Haven't got an oat," says Short ; " but where 's 
your team? Trot it up." 

The heads of the team were visible, and the next 
moment four curious-looking animals came up the 
inclined snow-plane to the open gangway, drawing 
a sledge (which looked very much like the one we 
had built to use about the ship), and leaped upon 
deck. The sledge was loaded with packages and 
bundles, all labeled, but the team was what at first 
most interested us. 

Those animals were not reindeer, nor dogs — un- 
less they were a new species that we had not yet 
heard of. They had only two legs, and they wore 
boots. But their bodies and heads were covered 
with fur, and something that looked like raveled- 
out stocking yarn. Their heads looked somewhat 
like dogs' heads ; but as none of them had their 
tongues out, we suspected they were not dogs at 
all. In some respects, especially in height, they 
resembled our four boat-steerers ; and when we re- 
membered that we had not seen the boat-steerers 
below for an hour or more, we thought it just pos- 
sible that they might have been transformed into 
these strange animals. 

The captain, and the others who lived in the 
cabin — all but the mate — came up to look at Santa 
Claus and his team. As for the sledge, we all felt 
sure we had seen it before ; but we were not going 
to accuse Santa Claus of deception, or with steal- 
ing, to begin with. Evidently he had brought us 
presents, and we ought to be satisfied. 

" No oats ! " exclaimed he as if astonished, when 
his team stood stamping and shaking themselves 
on deck. "What have you been living on all 
winter ? " 

" Nothing to brag of, as jet," said Short. 
" We 've been eating odds and ends, mostly. The 
doctor 's got some good beef in his coppers to-day, 
though, and if your hounds are hungry enough to 
eat that, they can have some." 

" Hungry ! Have n't stopped to eat nor drink, 
till now, since we left Kamtchatka, almost twenty- 
four hours ago ! Been clear round, you know. 
Guess they'll pick your beef-bones if you give 'em 
a chance ! And that reminds me, I 've got a few 
fixin's here that wont go bad with your Christmas 
dinner, and I guess I may as well give 'em to ye 
right away." And at once Santa Claus began to 

The packages he drew out first were labeled, in 
very bold letters, " For General Distribution." 
There was a keg of molasses, two whole hams, 
frozen pickles, condensed milk, a package of cheese 
(very old cheese, that had been packed in brandy, 
or something else that was strong enough to keep 
it), pilot bread (a better quality of bread than we 
got every day), a quantity of preserved bananas, 
somewhat resembling figs, a box of mustard, vin- 
egar, pickled potatoes, and a bag of dried apples. 

All these Santa Claus unloaded, while we crowded 
around him, and then came articles of clothing, 
each bearing in large letters the name of one of 
the crew. A pair of boots for one, a flannel shirt 
for another, a Guernsey frock for a third, and so 
on. Every man of us got something to cheer his 
heart and show that he was not forgotten. Old 
Santa seemed to know us all, and handed to each 
his particular package, accompanying it with some 
appropriate remark. 

We could not but admire the old fellow while he 
was doing this, but when it appeared that he had 
brought us letters from home, our enthusiasm al- 
most upset him. From out a deep pocket he drew 
letter after letter, afid, slowly reading the super- 
scription, handed it to the one to whom it belonged. 
To every one, even the cook, he brought a letter. 

But it was too cold to read the letters on deck, 
and we at once transferred all our presents to the 
steerage. Then we invited old Santa and his team 
to go down with us and hear the new r s and get some 
dinner. But the dinner would not be readv for 




an hour, and the old fellow thought he could n't 
wait. He had only an empty sledge now, he said, 
and his spaniels would take him home in a jiffy. 
Most likely his wife would have dinner waiting. 
So he cracked his long whip, and away they went, 
round the stern of the ship ; and we all rushed 

Then such a time as we had — I can hardly tell ! 
Of course, we read our letters first ; but, after all, it 
was evident they had not been written by those 
from whom we most wished to hear. Yet there 

taken Holland again. Uncle Seth had shingled his 
barn. They were talking of putting a new light- 
ning-rod on the meeting-house. Ann Eliza had 
sprained her ankle running after grasshoppers. 
Sarah Jane had lost her waterfall, and all the other 
girls were going to give up waterfalls because she 
could n't find it again. Such as these were the 
items of news we got ; and though, after all, there 
was not a word that could be depended upon about 
the dear ones at home, the letters helped to make 
our Christmas merry. By the time they were read, 


was news in them, such as it was. For instance, 
Sam Miller learned that Eliza, the girl he used to 
talk about, had got three new beaux since he left 
home, and was in an ; ' awful pucker" because she 
did n't know wh ch she liked best. 

Another of the girls whom we had heard about 
was married, and had moved to Kansas ; and an- 
other had started alone and on foot for the North 
Pole to look for her sailor-man, and had not been 
heard from since. But this was not half: 

Grandmother Goose was dead. The Dutch had 

our dinner was ready ; and I venture to say that 
never was there a more generous Christmas dinner 
served up so near the North Pole, or a jollier crew 
there to partake of it. 

I will add, that we got out of the ice at last, and 
after a little more whaling returned to the Sandwich 
Islands with a full ship. Our next Christmas was 
passed at Bahia, only a few degrees south of the 
Equator, in Brazil, beneath a blazing sun, in the 
midst of tropic scenery, and surrounded with nearly 
every kind of tropical production. 





By Louisa M. Alcott. 

MARJORIE sat on the door-step shelling peas, 
quite unconscious what a pretty picture she made 
with the roses peeping at her through the lattice- 
work of the porch, the wind playing hide-and-seek 
in her curly hair, while the sunshine with its silent 
magic changed her faded gingham to a golden 
gown, a'nd shimmered on the bright tin pan as if it 
were a silver shield. Old Rover lay at her feet, the 
white kitten purred on her shoulder, and friendly 
robins hopped about her in the grass, chirping 
"A happy birthday, Marjorie ! " 

But the little maid neither saw nor heard, for her 
eyes were fixed on the green pods, and her thoughts 
were far away. She was recalling the fairy-tale 
granny told her last night, and wishing with all her 
heart that such things happened nowadays. For 
in this story, as a poor girl like herself sat spinning 
before the door, a Brownie came by, and gave the 
child a good-luck penny: then a fairy passed, and 
left a talisman which would keep her always happy; 
and last of all, the prince rolled up in his chariot, 
and took her away to reign with him over a lovely 
kingdom, as a reward for her many kindnesses to 

When Marjorie imagined this part of the story, 
it was impossible to help giving one little sigh, 
and for a minute she forgot her work, so busy was 
she thinking what beautiful presents she would 
give to all the poor children in her realm when they 
had birthdays. Five impatient young peas took 
this opportunity to escape from the half-open pod 
in her hand and skip down the steps, to be imme- 
diately gobbled up by an audacious robin, who gave 
thanks in such a shrill chirp that Marjorie woke 
up, laughed, and fell to work again. She was just 
finishing, when a voice called out from the lane : 

" Hi, there ! come here a minute, child ! " and 
looking up, she saw a little old man in a queer little 
carriage drawn by a fat little pony. 

Running down to the gate, Marjorie dropped a 
curtsey, saying pleasantly : 

" What did you wish, sir ? " 

" Just undo that check-rein for me. I am lame, 
and Jack wants to drink at your brook," answered 
the old man, nodding at her till his spectacles 
danced on his nose. 

Marjorie was rather afraid of the fat pony, who 
tossed his head, whisked his tail, and stamped his 
feet as if he was of a peppery temper. But she 
liked to be useful, and just then felt as if there 
were few things she could not do if she tried, be- 

cause it was her birthday. So she proudly let 
down the rein, and when jack went splashing into 
the brook, she stood on the bridge waiting to 
check him up again after he had drank his fill of 
the clear; cool water. 

The old gentleman sat in his place looking up at 
the little girl, who was smiling to herself as she 
watched the blue dragon-flies dance among the 
ferns, a blackbird tilt on the alder-boughs, and 
listened to the babble of the brook. 

" How old are you, child ? " asked the old man, 
as if he rather envied the rosy creature her \ outh 
and health. 

"Twelve to-day, sir; " and Marjorie stood up 
straight and tall, as if mindful of her years. 

" Had any presents ? " asked the old man, peer- 
ing up with an odd smile. 

"One, sir — here it is; " and she pulled out of 
her pocket a tin savings bank in the shape of a 
desirable family mansion painted red, with a green 
door and black chimney. Proudly displaying it on 
the rude railing of the bridge, she added, with a 
happy face : 

" Granny gave it to me, and all the money in it 
is going to be mine." 

" How much have you got?" asked the old gen- 
tleman, who appeared to like to sit there in the 
middle of the brook, while Jack bathed his feet 
and leisurely gurgled and sneezed. 

" Not a penny yet. but I 'm going to earn 
some," answered Marjorie, patting the little bank 
with an air of resolution pretty to see. 

" How will you do it?" continued the inquisitive 
old man. 

" Oh, I 'm going to pick berries and dig dande- 
lions, and weed, and drive cows, and do chores. It 
is vacation, and I can work all the time, and earn 
ever so much." 

" But vacation is play-time — how about that ? " 

" Why, that sort of work is play, and I get bits 
of fun all along. I always have a good swing when 
I go for the cows, and pick flowers with the dande- 
lions. Weeding is n't so nice, but berrying is very 
pleasant, and we have good times all together." 

" What shall you do with your money when you 
get it ? " 

" Oh, lots of things ! Buy books and clothes 
for school, and if I get a great deal, give some to 
granny. I 'd love to do that, for she takes care of 
me, and I 'd be so proud to help her ! " 

" Good little lass ! " said the old gentleman, as 




he put his hand in his pocket. " Would you 
now ? " he added, apparently addressing himself to 
a large frog who sat upon a stone looking so wise 
and grandfatherly, that it really did seem quite 
proper to consult him. At all events, he gave his 
opinion in the most decided manner, for, with a 
loud croak, he turned an undignified somersault 
into the brook, splashing up the water at a great 
rate. " Well, perhaps it would n't be best on the 
whole. Industry is a good teacher, and money 
cannot buy happiness, as I know to my sorrow." 

The old gentleman still seemed to be talking to 
the frog, and as he spoke he took his hand out 
of his pocket with less in it than he had at first 

" What a very queer person ! " thought Marjo- 
rie, for she had not heard a word, and wondered 
what he was thinking about down there. 

Jack walked out of the brook just then, and she 
ran to check him up ; not an easy task for little 
hands, as he preferred to nibble the grass on the 
bank. But she did it cleverly, smoothed the ruffled 
mane, and, dropping another curtsey, stood aside 
to let the little carriage pass. 

" Thank you. child — thank you. Here is some- 
thing for your bank, and good luck to it." 

As he spoke, the old man laid a bright gold dol- 
lar in her hand, patted the rosy cheek, and vanished 
in a cloud of dust, leaving Marjorie so astonished 
at the grandeur of the gift, that she stood looking 
at it as if it had been a fortune. It was to her, 
and visions of pink calico gowns, new grammars, 
and fresh hat-ribbons danced through her head in 
delightful confusion, as her eyes rested on the shin- 
ing coin in her palm. 

Then, with a solemn air, she invested her first 
money by popping it down the chimney of the 
scarlet mansion, and peeping in with one eye to 
see if it landed safely on the ground- floor. This 
done, she took a long breath, and looked over the 
railing, to be sure it was not all a dream. No, the 
wheel-marks were still there, the brown water was 
not yet clear, and if a witness was needed, there 
sat the big frog again, looking so like the old gen- 
tleman, with his bottle-green coat, speckled trou- 
sers, and twinkling eyes, that Marjorie burst out 
laughing, and clapped her hands, saying aloud : 

" I '11 play he was the Brownie, and this is the 
good-luck penny he gave me. Oh, what fun ! " 
and away she skipped, rattling the dear new bank 
like a Castanet. 

When she had told granny all about it, she got 
knife and basket, and went out to dig dandelions; 
for the desire to increase her fortune was so strong, 
she could not rest a minute. Up and down she 
went, so busily peering and digging, that she never 
lifted up her eyes till something like a great 

white bird skimmed by so low, she could not help 
seeing it. A pleasant laugh sounded behind her 
as she started up, and looking round, she nearly 
sat down again in sheer surprise, for there close by 
was a slender little lady, comfortably established 
under a big umbrella. 

" If there were any fairies, I 'd be sure that was 
one," thought Marjorie, staring with all her might, 
for her mind was still full of the old story; and cu- 
rious things do happen on birthdays, as every one 

It really did seem rather elfish to look up sud- 
denly and see a lovely lady all in white, with shin- 
ing hair and a wand in her hand, sitting under what 
looked very like a large yellow mushroom in the 
middle of a meadow, where, till now, nothing but 
cows and grasshoppers had been seen. Before 
Marjorie could decide the question, the pleasant 
laugh came again, and the stranger said, pointing 
to the white thing that was still fluttering over the 
grass like a little cloud : 

" Would you kindly catch my hat for me, before 
it blows quite away ? " 

Down went basket and knife, and away ran Mar- 
jorie, entirely satisfied now that there was no magic 
about the new-comer ; for if she had been an elf, 
could n't she have got her hat without any help 
from a mortal child ? Presently, however, it did 
begin to seem as if that hat was bewitched, for it 
led the nimble-footed Marjorie such a chase that 
the cows stopped feeding to look on in placid won- 
der; the grasshoppers vainly tried to keep up, and 
every ox-eyed daisy did its best to catch the run- 
away, but failed entirely, for the wind liked a game 
of romps, and had it that day. As she ran, Mar- 
jorie heard the lady singing like the princess in 
the story of the Goose-Girl : 

" Blow, breezes, blow ! 
Let Curdldn's hat go ! 
Blow, breezes, blow, 
Let him after it go ! 
O'er hills, dales and rocks, 

Away be it whirled, 
Till the silvery locks 

Are all combed and curled." 

This made her laugh so. that she tumbled into a 
clover-bed. and lay there a minute to get her 
breath. Just then, as if the playful wind repented 
of its frolic, the long veil fastened to the hat caught 
in a blackberry-vine near by, and held the truant 
fast till Marjorie secured it. 

" Now come and see what I am doing," said the 
lady, when she had thanked the child. 

Marjorie drew near confidingly, and looked down 
at the wide-spread book before her. She gave a 
start, and laughed out with surprise and delight; 
for there was a lovely picture of her own little 
home and her own little self on the door-step, all 




so delicate, and beautiful, and true, it seemed as 
if done by magic. 

" Oh, how pretty ! There is Rover, and Kitty, 
and the robins, and me ! How could you ever 
do it, ma'am ? " said Marjorie, with a wondering 
glance at the long paint-brush, which had wrought 
what seemed a miracle to her childish eyes. 

" I '11 show you presently ; but tell me, first, if 
it looks quite right and natural to you. Children 
sometimes spy out faults that no one else can see," 
answered the lady, evidently pleased with the art 
less praise her work received. 

" It looks just like our house, only more beauti- 
ful. Perhaps that is because I know how shabby 
it really is. That moss looks lovely on the shin- 
gles, but the roof leaks. The porch is broken, 
only the roses hide the place ; and my gown is all 
faded, though it once was as bright as you have 
made it. I wish the house and everything would 
stay pretty forever as they will in the picture." 

While Marjorie spoke, the lady had been adding 
more color to the sketch, and when she looked 
up, something warmer and brighter than sunshine 
shone in her face, as she said, so cheerily, it was 
like a bird's song to hear her : 

" It can't be summer always, dear, but we can 
make fair weather for ourselves if we try. The 
moss, the roses, and soft shadows show the little 
house and the little girl at their best, and that is 
what we all should do; for it is amazing how lovely 
common things become, if one only knows how to 
look at them." 

" I wish / did." said Marjorie, half to herself, 
remembering how often she was discontented, and 
how hard it was to get on, sometimes. 

" So do I," said the lady, in her happy voice. 
" Just believe that there is a sunny side to every- 
thing, and try to find it, and you will be surprised 
to see how bright the world will seem, and how 
■cheerful you will be able to keep your little self." 

" I guess granny has found that out, for she 
never frets. I do, but I 'm going to stop it, be- 
cause I 'm twelve to-day, and that is too old for 
such things," said Marjorie, recollecting the good 
resolutions she had made that morning when she 

" I am twice twelve, and not entirely cured yet; 
"but I try, and don't mean to wear blue spectacles 
if I can help it." answered the lady, laughing so 
blithely that Marjorie was sure she would not have 
to try much longer. " Birthdays were made for 
presents, and I should like to give you one. 
Would it please you to have this little picture ? " 
she added, lifting it out of the book. 

" Truly my own ? Oh, yes, indeed ! " cried 
Marjorie, coloring with pleasure, for she had never 
owned so beautiful a thing before. 

" Then you shall have it, dear. Hang it where 
you can see it often, and when you look, remember 
that it is the sunny side of home, and help to keep 
it so." 

Marjorie had nothing but a kiss to offer by way 
of thanks, as the lovely sketch was put into her 
hand ; but the giver seemed quite satisfied, for it 
was a very grateful little kiss. Then the child took 
up her basket and went away, not dancing and 
singing now, but slowly and silently ; for this gift 
made her thoughtful as well as glad. As she 
climbed the wall, she looked back to nod good- 
bye to the pretty lady ; but the meadow was emp- 
ty, and all she saw was the grass blowing in the 

" Now, deary, run out and play, for birthdays 
come but once a year, and we must make them as 
merry as we can," said granny, as she settled her- 
self for her afternoon nap, when the Saturday 
cleaning was all done, and the little house as neat 
as wax. 

So Marjorie put on a white apron in honor of 
the occasion, and, taking kitty in her arms, went 
out to enjoy herself. Three swings on the gate 
seemed to be a good way of beginning the festivi- 
ties ; but she only got two, for when the gate 
creaked back the second time, it stayed shut, and 
Marjorie hung over the pickets, arrested by the 
sound of music. 

"It's soldiers," she said, as the fife and drum 
drew nearer, and flags were seen waving over the 
barberry-bushes at the corner. 

" No, it 's a picnic," she added in a moment; 
for she saw hats with wreaths about them bobbing 
up and down, as a gayly trimmed hay-cart full of 
children came rumbling down the lane. 

" What a nice time they are going to have ! " 
thought Marjorie, sadly contrasting that merry- 
making with the quiet party she was having all by 

Suddenly her face shone, and kitty was waved 
over her head like a banner, as she flew out of the 
gate, crying rapturously : 

" It 's Billy ! and I know he 's come for me ! " 

It certainly was Billy, proudly driving the old 
horse, and beaming at his little friend from the 
bower of flags and chestnut-boughs, where he sat 
in state, with a crown of daisies on his sailor-hat 
and a spray of blooming sweetbrier in his hand. 
Waving his rustic scepter, he led off the shout of 
" Happy birthday, Marjorie ! " which was set up 
as the wagon stopped at the gate, and the green 
boughs suddenly blossomed with familiar faces, all 
smiling on the little damsel, who stood in the lane 
quite overpowered with delight. 

"It's a s'prise party!" cried one small lad, 
tumbling out behind. 




" We are going up the mountain to have fun ! " 
added a chorus of voices, as a dozen hands beck- 
oned wildly. 

" We got it up on purpose for you, so tie your 
hat and come away," said a pretty girl, leaning 
down to kiss Marjorie, who had dropped kitty, and 
stood ready for any splendid enterprise. 

A word to granny, and away went the happy 
child, sitting up beside Billy, under the flags that 
waved over a happier load than any royal chariot 
ever bore. 

It would be vain to try and tell all the plays and 
pleasures of happy children on a Saturday after- 
noon, but we may briefly say that Marjorie found 
a mossy stone all ready for her throne, and Billy 
crowned her with a garland like his own. That a 
fine banquet was spread and eaten with a relish 
many a Lord Mayor's feast has lacked. Then how 
the whole court danced and played together after- 
ward ! The lords climbed trees and turned somer- 
saults, the ladies gathered flowers and told secrets 
under the sweetfern-bushes, the queen lost her 
shoe jumping over the waterfall, and the king 
paddled into the pool below and rescued it. A 
happy little kingdom, full of summer sunshine, 
innocent delights and loyal hearts; for love ruled, 
and the only war that disturbed the peaceful land 
was waged by the mosquitoes as night came on. 

Marjorie stood on her throne watching the sun- 
set while her maids of honor packed up the remains 
of the banquet, and her knights prepared the char- 
iot. All the sky was gold and purple, all the 
world bathed in a soft, red light, and the little girl 
was very happy as she looked clown at the subjects 
who had served her so faithfully that day. 

" Have you had a good time, Marjy ? " asked 

King William, who stood below with his royal nose 
on a level with her majesty's two dusty little shoes. 

"Oh, Billy, it has been just splendid! But I 
don't sec why you should all be so kind to me," 
answered Marjorie, with such a look of innocent 
wonder, that Billy laughed to see it. 

" Because you are so sweet and good, we can't 
help loving you — that 's why," he said, as if this 
simple fact was reason enough. 

" I 'm going to be the best girl that ever was, 
and love everybody in the world," cried the child, 
stretching out her arms as if ready, in the fullness 
of her happy heart, to embrace all creation. 

" Don't turn into an angel and fly away just yet, 
but come home, or granny will never lend you to 
us any more." 

With that, Billy jumped her down, and away 
they ran, to ride gayly back through the twilight, 
singing like a flock of nightingales. 

As she went to bed that night, Marjorie looked 
at the red bank, the pretty picture, and the daisy 
crown, saying to herself: 

'It has been a very nice birthday, and I am some- 
thing like the girl in the story, after all, for the 
old man gave me a good-luck penny, the kind 
lady told me how to keep happy, and Billy came 
for me like the prince. The girl did n't go back 
to the poor house again, but I 'm glad / did, for 
my granny is n't a cross one, and my little home 
is the dearest in the world." 

Then she tied her night-cap, said her prayers, 
and fell asleep ; but the moon, looking in to kiss 
the blooming face upon the pillow, knew that three 
good spirits had come to help little Marjorie from 
that day forth, and their names were Industry, 
Cheerfulness, and Love. 


By A. D. W. 

Merry Christmas ! girls and boys. 
Santa Claus with team and toys 
Now is starting on his way, 
With his overladen sleigh, — 
Never heeding cold or wetting, 
Not a single town forgetting. 
But a puzzled look he bears 
As he moves among his wares; 

And I doubt if ever yet 
Was Santa Claus in such a pet. 
Now he purses up his lips, 
Snaps his rosy finger-tips; 
All in vain he scans his store, 
Names the children o'er and o'er,- 
Just one boy deserves a switch, 
And he has forgotten which. 

i8 7 6.J 


I6 5 


By Fannie Roper Feudge. 

Christmas in the East ! — in a land where it 
never snows, and where the houses do not even 
have chimneys, as fires are not needed to sit by, 
and the cooking is done in little shanties built 
apart from the dwellings. But then it is always 
warm enough to leave doors and windows wide 
open, and dear old Santa Claus may take his 

our little ones of the "trees" and "stockings," or 
the feasting and presents, and the "good times" 
generally that belong to this cheery season. We 
had in our beautiful Eastern home, embowered in 
its wonderful tropic flowers so fragrant and so fair, 
a blue-eyed boy, with fair, rosy cheeks, and soft, 
wavy hair like a cloud of golden sunlight ; and 


choice of entering by either of these instead of a 
chimney, thus escaping the chance of getting 
burned or begrimed with soot. 

The Orientals themselves do not know much 
about Christmas, either as a holiday, or the blessed 
anniversary that commemorates the birth of our 
dear, loving Saviour, who was born as a babe in 
Bethlehem, and who died for us on Calvary. But 
we who went from pleasant homes and happy fire- 
sides in this fair land did not forget the good old 
fashion of " Christmas-keeping," nor fail to tell 

there was another who came often to play with 
him — a little prince, of slight, graceful figure, with 
the rich, bronze complexion of that sunny clime, 
and beautiful dark eyes that flashed like diamonds. 
His glossy black hair was worn very curiously, — at 
the back cut close to the head, and in front, where 
it was almost a foot long, coiled in a smooth knot 
on the top of the forehead, and confined by a long, 
golden pin set with very costly diamonds. Around 
this knot of hair was always twined a wreath of 
jessamines or tuberoses that were held in place by 

1 66 



jeweled pins. His simple costume consisted of 
only two flowing garments of silk or embroidered 
muslin, but the deficiency was more than made up 
by jewelry, of which he wore incredible quantities, 
in the varied forms of rings, chains, anklets and 
bracelets. There were half-a-dozen or more gold 
necklaces around his throat, and an equal number 
of chains across the left shoulder, passing under 
the right arm ; a jeweled girdle of very great value 
was clasped about his waist ; heavy gold bracelets, 
one above another, filled nearly the entire space 
between his wrist and elbow, and many more, just 
as massive and costly, were around the brown 
ankles, while every finger was literally loaded with 

But the most curious of all was a tiny talisman of 
quaint workmanship, suspended by a slender chain 
about the child's neck, and designed, so his mother 
told me, to keep off witches and evil spirits. The 
head nurse had placed this "charm" on the baby's 
neck at his birth, and, sleeping or waking, it was 
never removed. On his visits to my house, the 
little prince was always attended by thirty or forty 
servants, who crouched down about the halls and 
verandas, ready to wait on their little lord and 
see that he was kept out of harm's way. On first 
entering, the wee prince would step gravely for- 
ward and hold up his sweet face to me for the 
usual kiss, and then, seating himself on a low otto- 
man, would beckon one of his servants to come 
and remove his cumbrous ornaments, that he 
might the better enjoy a romp with my little son. 
So one costly decoration after another would be 
taken off, and as they were laid all together in one 
glittering pile there seemed almost enough to 
stock a small jewelry store. Thus relieved, the 
little prince would bound away with the joyous 
exclamation: "Now I can play ever so nice!" 
The two playfellows loved each other very dearly, 
and seemed never to weary of being together ; yet 
they would look into each other's faces with ques- 
tioning wonder, as if to ask why they were so 
different. The little prince would stroke fondly 
the soft, golden curls of his companion, and then 
run to a mirror and stand for minutes together, 
feeling and scrutinizing his own glossy locks of 
raven blackness ; while my own fair boy would pat 
lovingly the bronze-tinted cheek of the handsome 
little prince, and then look at his own tiny, 
dimpled hand, white almost as a snow-flake, to 
see if the color had been transferred by touching. 
As different as possible they were in everything, 
yet both so very lovely and charming, one never 
knew which most to admire. One was round, 
chubby and dimpled, with cheeks like a fresh rose, 
and eyes blue ; the other, pale, dark, slender and 
graceful — one all roguishness and fun ; the other 

noting everything about him, and strangely wise 
and dignified for his years. 

They were very near of an age, the little prince 
being the senior by only a few months; and when 
the Christmas after their fifth birthday came round, 
I determined to give them a celebration — such an 
one as they had never seen in all their five-year 
lives. That they might enjoy to the full the 
pleasant surprise, I kept my own counsel and told 
them nothing, except that the young prince was to 
come and spend the day with me, and bring his 
little sister. My boy knew there was to be com- 
pany, as usual, on Christmas-day, and that was 
all. On Christmas Eve, Santa Claus arrived with 
mysterious-looking parcels — enough to set Master 
Harry half crazy with curiosity, and render it ex- 
tremely difficult to get him off to bed at his usual 
early hour. When relieved of his presence, we 
set to work in good earnest and soon had all 
things arranged to our minds. 

At six o'clock on Christmas morning, our merry 
prattler was aroused by a bombardment of Chinese 
fire-crackers against the nursery door ; and, be- 
fore he could be arrayed in his simple dress of 
white muslin, more than half of the twenty little 
guests who had been invited were already in the 
reception-room. A few moments more brought 
the remainder, the little prince and his sister 
among them ; and then the folding-doors that 
led to papa's study were thrown open, and Santa 
Claus stood revealed to the astonished group ! 
Yes, there stood "His Excellency" dressed in 
fantastic garb of green and gold Chinese "knee 
breeches," and huge, glittering buckles on his 
white-soled shoes ; while over all, as if the ther- 
mometer had been standing at zero instead of 
io2°, was thrown a bright crimson cloak, and his 
cap was surmounted by a crest of what seemed to 
be real, genuine icicles. From the capacious 
pockets of his fantastic cloak, Santa Claus scat- 
tered bonbons and fire-works profusely around, 
standing guard meanwhile over the beautiful tree 
that adorned the center of the apartment and 
towered in majestic height almost to the ceiling. 

Not one of the children had ever seen Santa 
Claus before, and they were lost in wonder as to 
where he could have sprung from, with his long, 
white beard and frosty hair, so strangely opposed 
to his merry voice and frolicsome pranks. There 
is no telling how long the disguise would have been 
kept up, but in romping with one of the little ones, 
the false mustache dropped off, and could not be 
replaced, and the merry peal of laughter that fol- 
lowed betrayed the imposture, as with a scream of 
delight little Harry exclaimed: "Papa! my own 
papa ! " 

So cloak and crown were thrown aside, and 

■8 7 6.J 


I6 7 

"papa" in his own person no longer guarded the 
tree, but invited all to approach and partake of its 
precious fruits. It was a gracefully formed orangc- 

1 tree, alive and growing in a huge tub, every twig 
and branch loaded with the fragrant blossoms, and 
green and ripe fruit in the various stages. Among 

I the branches were tiny Chinese lanterns of oiled 
silk, painted in fantastic pictures of angels and 
dragons, winged women and flying fish, and all 
the other impossible things that Chinese artists 
love to paint. The gifts and toys that decorated 
the tree were just as wonderful, but in quite a 

1 different way. There were toy sets of furniture 
of exquisitely carved ivory instead of wood ; minia- 
ture steamboats and chariots that could be wound 
up like a clock, and made to run for half an hour ; 
magic tumblers and jugglers acting like things of 
life ; artificial basins of water with fish and ducks 
swimming in them, which by means of a magnetic 
needle could be made to gather around a pretty 
little maiden, whose call was expressed by raising 
her hands ; miniature tea-sets of beautiful por- 
celain ; curious ivory balls cut within balls, and 
various other things that I have not time here to 
describe, besides puzzles, games and bonbons in 
seemingly endless variety. On the topmost sum- 
mit of the tree hung the American and Siamese 
flags with blended folds. The national banner of 
Siam is a white elephant on a crimson ground. 

, The top of a light and graceful tree seemed a queer 
place for an elephant, but, I have no doubt, our 

"• youngsters thought the gay colors floating over 
the green leaves and golden fruit looked very 
handsome. Upon tiny twigs, that could support 
nothing more weighty, were hung small crystallized 
fruits, and among them floated a tiny, silken flag, 
on which were written these lines: 

" Though mighty deeds by right, 
From older folks are due, 
Yet little ones should try 
Some good, at least, to do. 

The gentle child, though small, 

May little favors show ; 
And loving words to all 

From infant lips may flow." 

The tree, with all it contained, was given up to 
th» little ones to be disposed of just as they 
wished; and that they found in its fruits bound- 
less stores of enjoyment no one would have 
■ doubted, after hearing their glad shouts of joy 
< during all the hours of that happy Christmas- 
j day. So busy and so merry were they over their 
treat that they could scarcely be persuaded to 
1 stop at nine o'clock long enough for breakfast ; 
but when dinner came at four P. M. both curiosity 

and the spirit of frolic were somewhat abated, and 
they sat down to the feast, prepared to do full jus- 
tice to the good things set before them. Twenty 
high chairs had been collected from the neighbor- 
ing families for the use of the little guests, and 
they sat around that long table, as beautiful a 
group of laughing, rosy cherubs as ever were 
collected under a roof. The eldest of the com- 
pany was less than six, and the youngest — dainty, 
flaxen-haired little Blanche — scarcely three. Right 
merrily they chatted and joked, and talked baby 
nonsense — sometimes in English, more frequently 
in Siamese or Malay — for three-year-old linguists 
who talk half-a-dozen languages are often found 
in the East. But never a discord was heard, a 
word of impatience, or an angry retort from all 
that happy group. 

At six (which is twilight within the Tropics), we 
had a grand display of fire-works : rockets, squibs 
and fire-wheels, tokas and Roman candles ; and 
then the merry party broke up, to return to their 
several homes. Among all my tiny guests not 
one was more delighted than the little prince, as 
wonderingly he inspected all the arrangements of 
this first Christmas in which he had ever, really, 
taken any part. Santa Claus and the tree were 
very prodigies of beauty and skill in the eyes of 
the little fellow, and over and over again, as his 
parents told me, were all the details of that cheery 
Christmas festival reenacted within the broad halls 
of the grand palace royal, of which this beautiful 
boy was the most cherished ornament. He decked 
out one of his attendants as Santa Claus, and a 
dozen little half-brothers and sisters, all near his 
own age, served as guests. Not an important 
item of the celebration he so much enjoyed was 
omitted; and it shows the wonderful aptitude of 
the royal child, that after witnessing only for a 
single time these varied details he should be able 
to reproduce them with such accuracy. Now, in 
his young manhood, it is still the same intelligent 
aptitude applied to the introduction from other 
countries of many of the inventions and improve- 
ments of the day, that has given to Siam such a 
wonderful impetus in progress, and to the two 
youthful sovereigns of that fair land, the first place 
among Oriental monarchs. For that little head 
now wears a crown ; the tiny, dimpled fingers so 
busy in plucking the fruits of the Christmas-tree, 
to-day grasp a jeweled scepter, and the boy folded 
so lovingly in my arms on that happy Christmas- 
day, now occupies the glittering throne of the 
"Sacred and great kingdom of Siam," and re- 
ceives the loving homage of its ten millions of 

1 68 




By C. P. Cranch. 

: Come, Willie ! I would n't be toasting 

My shins at the fire all night. 
When the snow is so splendid for coasting, 
And the full moon is shining so bright. 

■ Ho, David ! " cried Will, " you 've been hiding ; 

But this is as strange as a dream, — 
For how in the world are you riding 
Up hill without horses or steam ? " 

: I would n't be such a young napper, 

For anything under the sun. 
Come ! on with your fur cap and wrapper ! 
We are sure to have capital fun. 

But never an answer got Willie — 
The figure sat still as a gnome ; 

He began to feel solemn and chilly, 
And wished he had never left home. 

" Dobb's Hill is the place. You must hurry! 
The boys all are out in the snow ! 
And tell your mamma not to worry ; 
We'll be back by ten — as you know." 

But slowly and slowly the figure 

Moved up o'er the snow and the ice ; 

Then suddenly seemed to grow bigger, 
And leapt from his sled in a trice. 

So Willie got up and bestirred him ; 

But David had gone ere he woke. 
Said Willie : " I certainly heard him — 

Yes, surely 'twas David that spoke." 

"Come, Willie !" he cried, "we'll together 
Coast down on my sled to the lake ; 
There was never such glorious weather 
For a journey like that we shall take." 

Then off Willie started to find him, 

With his cap, and his mittens, and sled. 
1 Stop, David ! " he shouted behind him ; 
But David heard nothing he said. 

~B\it you are not David!" said Willie; 

With strangers like you I '11 not go." 
Said the man: "You must go, willy-nilly, 

For I am your uncle, you know, — 

"He's gone to Dobb's Hill, where the coasting 
Is best — for the hill 's very high ; 
And David has always been boasting 
He could run his sled farther than I ! " 

"Your uncle, Cadwallader Biornson, 
From Lapland. It can't be denied : 
Your mother's half-brother, Luke Johnson, 
Was mine — on vour grandmother's side. 

Then up to Dobb's Hill Willie floundered. 

But lo I not a boy to be seen ; 
And he stood in the snow there, and pondered. 

And wondered what David could mean. 

w-as coming this evening to see you ; 
But am glad that I met you just here, 
was n't quite sure it could be you, 
Until I could see you quite near. 

'T was almost as clear as the noon-light- 

The trees towered tall overhead ; 
He stood in the silence and moonlight. 
And mournfullv looked at his sled. 

It 's a wonderful sled that I carry — 
'T will take you wherever you will ; 

So get on behind me — don't tarry ; 

We'll take such a ride down the hill!" 

: I 'd better go back, then," said Willis 
"There's little fun coasting alone. 
But then, it seems stupid and silly 
Not having some fun of my own." 

Here he loosened his cap and his wrappers, 
And showed him an honest old face. 

What a pity he told him such whappers, 
And talked with so winning a grace ! 

Now while he took time for deciding, 

And this way and that turned his head, 
He saw a small figure come riding 

Straight up the hill-side, on a sled. 

For Willie was coaxed to believe him,— 
He was sure such a twinkling eye 

Could never betray or deceive him, 
And yet he could hardly tell why. 

j8 7 6.] 



■ He looks like old Santa Claus, clearly ! 
Perhaps he will take me to see 
Where he keeps all the toys that he yearly 
Hangs up on the Christmas-tree ! " 

So off in the moonlight they started, — 
"His uncle" before, he behind,— 
Vol. III.— 12. 

And Willie was gay and light-hearted. 
As downward they flew like the wind. 

Faster and faster and faster ! 

Far down on their slippery track ; 
And Will, he stuck on like a plaster 

Behind the old gentleman's back. 




But soon it grew colder and colder, 

No end to the hill anywhere. 
And he saw o'er the Laplander's shoulder 

That they seemed to be flying through air. 

And round them the stars were all flashing, 

Auroras waved wild overhead, 
Till at last came a terrible crashing 

That shook him all over with dread. 

And a blue flying meteor shot by him — 
He shrank from the glare and the heat, 

For it flamed and it thundered so nigh him, 
He started and fell from his seat ! 

He fell from his seat — and it woke him — 
Still there by the fire, it would seem ! 

And David will tease him and joke him, 
Because he once told him his dream. 


C'etait une belle matinee de printemps : le soleil 
brillait, les oiseaux chantaient, l'herbe etait toute 
couverte d'une fraiche rosee. Dans le ruisseau qui 
longe le jardin, un joli petit ruisseau qui coule 
doucement a travers des prairies emaillees de fleurs, 
Maman Cane donnait des lecons de natation a ses 
petits ; vous savez bien que le premier devoir d'un 
canard est de bien apprendre a nager, et naturelle- 
ment, Madame Cane soignait beaucoup cette 
branche de l'education de ses petits. Elle les cor- 
rigeait quand ils ne nageaient pas bien, leur faisait 
tenir la tete droite, et enseignait en outre aux deux 
aines a plonger. Les canetons n'en etaient pas a 
leur premiere lecon et faisaient deja bonne figure 
dans l'eau. Aussi, apres avoir etudie quelque temps, 
les jeunes ecoliers demandent a leur maitresse la 
permission d'aller faire une petite promenade a la 
nage ; elle le leur permet, et voila nos canetons qui 
s'elancent gaiement avec le courant. Les deuce 
aines ouvraient la marche et servaient d'avant- 
garde ; ensuite venaient les trois autres ; c'etait la 
premiere fois qu'ils s'en allaient seuls, et ils regar- 
daient tous a droite et a gauche, parceque tout leur 
etait nouveau et etrange. A mesure qu'ils na- 
geaient, le ruisseau s'elargissait ; de gais papillons 
voltigeaient parmi les fleurs, et de jolis oiseaux 
chantaient sur les buissons. Ils nageaient deja de- 
puis quelque temps, lorsque tout a coup un grand 
bruit se fit entendre ; l'eau fut agitee ; les canards 
effrayes, se retournerent juste a temps pour voir les 
pattes de derriere d'un gros vieux crapaud dispa- 
raitre sous l'eau. 

" Ce n'etait vraiement pas la peine de nous effrayer 
pour si peu de chose," dit le plus grand des ca- 
nards, qui s'appellait Neptune ; mais lui aussi avait 
bien eu peur. Ils rirent de leur frayeur, et con- 
tinuerent leur chemin ; a ce moment, leur attention 
fut attiree par des cris piteux pousses par un des 
trois petits canards ; il avait vu quelque chose au 
bord du ruisseau qu'il croyait etre bon a manger et 
il etait alle se fourrer le bee entre deux pierres et 
ne pouvait plus le retirer. II se debattait comme 
un furieux quand les autres arriverent; les deux 
grands le saisirent, chacun par une aile, les deux 

(Translations of this little story will 

autres petits le prirent par la queue, et ils tirerent 
tant qu'ils purent. Enfin, a force de tirer, ils fini- 
rent par degager leur petit frere, le bee a moitie 
disloque, et en proie a un mal de dents horrible. 
II pleurait a chaudes larmes mais ses camarades 
reussirent a le consoler, et il les suivit a quelque 
distance, mais sans rire et sans jouer avec eux. 
Tout en nageant, ils arriverent devant une maison 
oil il y avait un petit chien ; aussitot que celui-ci 
les apercut, il fondit droit sur eux en aboyant de 
toutcs ses forces, comme s'il eut voulu en gober au 
moins deux a la fois. Mais en arrivant au bord de 
l'eau, il s'arreta, indecis, sans avoir le courage d'y 
entrer. Quand les canetons virent combien il etait 
lache, ils s'arreterent, le regarderent avec mepris, 
et joignirent leurs couacs de defi a ses aboiements 
furieux. Au bruit qu'ils firent, la porte de la maison 
s'ouvrit, un petit garcon sortit, et vint en courant 
vers nos canetons. 11 n'avait pas Fair bien gentil, 
et quand, au lieu de chasser le petit chien, il se mit 
a ramasser des pierres, les canards commencerent 
a se douter de ses intentions. L'avant-garde donna 
le signal de la fuite, et, tournant bee, ils filerent a 
toutes pattes. II etait temps, car le petit garcon 
etait deja en train de leur jeter des pierres. Mais 
heureusement, plus il jetait de pierres, moins il 
reussissait a les atteindre. Quand ils furent hors 
de portee de ses attaques, ils se retournerent pour 
voir ce qu'il allait faire. Le petit gamin pleurait 
presque de rage, et courait le long du ruisseau ppur 
arriver plus pres d'eux ; mais sa colere l'empechait 
de voir oil il mettait les pieds ; il fit un faux pas, 
pouf ! — le voila dans l'eau. En entendant ses cris 
de detresse, sa mere accourut, le retira de l'eau, et 
lui donnant deux bons soufflets, l'emmena dans la 
maison se secher. La chute du petit emporte ex- 
cita un rire fou chez les canards, mais ils penserent 
qu'il etait plus prudent de ne pas continuer leur 
promenade ce jour-la, et se mirent en route pour 
aller retrouver la maman. 

En revenant, il ne leur arriva rien qui vaille la 
peine d'etre raconte, et ils passerent le reste de la 
journee a causer de leurs aventures, et a les de- • 
tailler a la Maman Cane. 

be received until February 15th.) 


i8 7 6.J 




(A Christinas Story.) 

By Susan Coolidge. 

he winter sun was nearing 
the horizon's edge. Each 
moment the tree-shadows 
grew longer in the forest ; each mo- 
ment the crimson light on the upper 
boughs became more red and bright. 
It was Christmas Eve, or would be 
in half-an-hour, when the sun should 
be fairly set ; but it did not feel like 
Christmas, for the afternoon was mild 
and sweet, and the wind in the leaf- 
less boughs sang, as it moved about, 
as though to imitate the vanished 
birds. Soft trills and whistles, odd little shakes 
and twitters ; — it was astonishing what pretty noises 
the wind made, for it was in good humor, as winds 
should be on the Blessed Night ; all its storm- 
tones and bass-notes were for the moment laid 
aside, and gently, as though hushing a baby 
to sleep, it cooed and rustled and brushed to and 
fro in the leafless woods. 

Toinette stood, pitcher in hand, beside the well. 
" Wishing Well " the people called it, for they 
believed that if any one standing there, bowed to 
the East, repeated a certain rhyme and wished a 
wish, the wish would certainly come true. Un- 
luckily, nobody knew exactly what the rhyme 
should be. Toinette did not : she was wishing 
that she did, as she stood with her eyes fixed on 
the bubbling water. How nice it would be ! she 
thought. What beautiful things should be hers, 
if it were only to wish and to have ! She would 
be beautiful, rich, good — oh, so good ! The chil- 
dren should love her dearly, and never be disa- 
greeable. Mother should not work so hard — they 
should all go back to France — which mother said 
was si belle. Oh, dear, how nice it would be ! 
Meantime, the sun sank lower, and mother at 
home was waiting for the water, but Toinette for- 
got that. 

Suddenly she started. A low sound of crying 
met her ear, and something like a tiny moan. It 
seemed close by, but she saw nothing. 

Hastily she filled her pitcher, and turned to go. 
But again the sound came, an unmistakable sob, 
right under her feet. Toinette stopped short. 

" What is the matter ? " she called out bravely. 
" Is anybody there ; and if there is, why don't I 
see you ? " 

A third sob — and all at once, down on the 

ground beside her, a tiny figure became visible, so 
small that Toinette had to kneel and stoop her 
head to see it plainly. The figure was that of an 
odd little man. He wore a garb of green, bright 
and glancing as the scales of a beetle. In his mite 
of a hand was a cap, out of which stuck a long- 
pointed feather. Two specks of tears stood on his 
cheeks, and he fixed on Toinette a glance so sharp 
and so sad, that it made her feel sorry and fright- 
ened and confused all at once. 

" Why, how funny this is ! " she said, speaking 
to herself out loud. 

" Not at all," replied the little man, in a voice 
as dry and crisp as the chirr of a grasshopper. 
'"Anything but funny. I wish you wouldn't use 
such words. It hurts my feelings, Toinette." 

"Do you know my name, then?" cried Toi- 
nette, astonished. " That 's strange ! But what 
is the matter ? Why are you crying so, little 
man ? " 

'' I 'm not a little man. I 'm an elf," responded 
the dry voice ; " and I think you 'd cry if you had 
an engagement out to tea, and found yourself 
spiked on a great bayonet, so that you could n't 
move an inch. Look ! " He turned a little as he 
spoke, and Toinette saw a long rose-thorn stick- 
ing through the back of the green robe. The little 
man could by no means reach the thorn, and it 
held him fast prisoner to the place. 

•'Is that all? I'll take it out for you." she 

" Be careful — oh, be careful ! " entreated the 
little man. " This is my new dress, you know — 
my Christmas suit, and it 's got to last a year. 
If there is a hole in it, Peascod will tickle me, and 
Bean Blossom tease till I shall wish myself dead." 
He stamped with vexation at the thought. 

" Now, you must n't do that," said Toinette. in 
a motherly tone, " else you '11 tear it yourself, you 
know." She broke off the thorn as she spoke, and 
gently drew it out. The elf anxiously examined 
the stuff. A tiny puncture only was visible, and 
his face brightened. 

" You're a good child," he said. " I '11 do as 
much for you some day, perhaps." 

" I would have come before if I had seen you." 
remarked Toinette, timidly. " But I did n't see 
you a bit." 

" No, because I had my cap on," replied the 
elf. He placed it on his head as he spoke, and. 




hey, presto ! nobody was there, only a voice which 
laughed and said : " Well — don't stare so. Lay 
your finger on me now." 

"Oh!" said Toinette, with a gasp. •'How 
wonderful ! What fun it must be to do that ! The 
children would n't see me. I should steal in and 
surprise them; they would go on talking, and 
never guess that I was there ! I should so like it ! 
Do elves ever lend their caps to anybody ? I wish 
you 'd lend me yours. It must be so nice to be 
invisible ! " 

" Ho ! " cried the elf, appearing suddenly again. 
"Lend my cap, indeed! Why, it wouldn't stay 
on the very tip of your ear, it 's so small. As for 
nice, that depends. Sometimes it is, and some- 
times it is n't. No, the only way for mortal peo- 
ple to be invisible is to gather the fern-seed and 
put it in their shoes." 

" Gather it ? Where ? I never saw any seed to 
the ferns," said Toinette, staring about her. 

" Of course not — we elves take care of that,'' 
replied the little man. " Nobody finds the fern- 
seed but ourselves. I '11 tell you what, though. 
You were such a nice child to take out the thorn 
so cleverly, that I '11 give you a little of the seed. 
Then you can try the fun of being invisible to your 
heart's content." 

'' Will you really ? How delightful ! May I 
have it now ? " 

" Bless me ! do you think I carry my pocket 
stuffed with it?" said the elf. "Not at all. Go 
home, say not a word to anybody, but leave your 
bedroom window open to-night, and you '11 see 
what you '11 see." 

He laid his finger on his nose as he spoke, gave 
a jump like a grasshopper, clapping on his cap as 
he went, and vanished. Toinette lingered a mo- 
ment, in hopes that he might come back, then 
took her pitcher and hurried home. The woods 
were very dusky by this time ; but, full of her 
strange adventure, she did not remember to feel 

" How long you have been ! " said her mother. 
" It 's late for a little maid like you to be up. You 
must make better speed another time, my child." 

Toinette pouted, as she was apt to do when re- 
proved. The children clamored to know what had 
kept her, and she spoke pettishly and crossly; so 
that they too became cross, and presently went 
away into the outer kitchen to play by themselves. 
The children were apt to creep away when Toi- 
nette came. It made her angry and unhappy at 
times that they should do so, but she did not real- 
ize that it was in great part her own fault, and so 
did not set herself to mend it. 

" Tell me a 'tory," said baby Jeanneton, creep- 
ing to her knee a little later. But Toinette's head 

was full of the elf; she had no time to spare for 

" Oh, not to-night!" she replied. "Ask mother 
to tell you one." 

•' Mother 's busy," said Jeanneton, wistfully. 

Toinette took no notice, and the little one crept 
away disconsolately. 

Bed-time at last. Toinette set the casement 
open, and lay a long time waiting and watching; 
then she fell asleep. She waked with a sneeze and 
jump, and sat up in bed. Behold, on the coverlet 
stood her elfin friend, with a long train of other elves 
beside him, all clad in the beetle-wing green, and 
wearing little pointed caps ! More were coming in 
at the window; outside a few were drifting about in 
the moon-rays, which lit their sparkling robes till 
they glittered like so many fire-flies. The odd 
thing was, that though the caps were on, Toinette 
could see the elves distinctly, and this surprised 
her so much, that again she thought out loud, and 
said : 

" How funny ! " 

" You mean about the caps," replied her special 
elf, who seemed to have the power of reading 
thoughts. " Yes, you can see us to-night, caps 
and all. Spells lose their value on Christmas Eve 
always. Peascod, where is the box ? Do' you 
still wish to try the experiment of being invisible, 
Toinette ? " 

" Oh, yes — indeed I do ! " 

" Very well — so let it be ! " 

As he spoke he beckoned, and two elves, puffing 
and panting like men with a heavy load, dragged 
forward a droll little box about the size of a pump- 
kin-seed. One of them lifted the cover. 

" Pay the porter, please ma'am," he said, giving 
Toinette's ear a mischievous tweak with his sharp 

" Hands off, you bad Peascod!" cried Toinette's 
elf. "This is my girl. She sha' n't be pinched." 
He dealt Peascod a blow with his tiny hand as he 
spoke, and looked so brave and warlike, that he 
seemed at least an inch taller than he had before. 
Toinette admired him very much ; and Peascod 
slunk away with an abashed giggle, muttering that 
Thistle need n't be so ready with his fist. 

Thistle — for thus, it seemed, Toinette's friend 
was named — dipped his fingers in the box, which 
was full of fine brown seeds, and shook a handful 
into each of Toinette's shoes, as they stood, toes 
together, by the bedside. 

" Now you have your wish," he said, "and can 
go about and do what you like, no one seeing. The 
charm will end at sunset. Make the most of it 
while you can ; but if you want to end it sooner, 
shake the seeds from the shoes, and then you are 
just as usual." 

i8 7 6.J 


l 7o 

" Oh, I sha' n't want to," protested Toinette ; 
" I 'm sure I sha' n't." 

" Good-bye," said Thistle, with a mocking little 

"Good-bye, and thank you ever so much," re- 
plied Toinette. 

"Good-bye, good-bye," replied the other elves, 
in shrill chorus. They clustered together, as if in 
consultation ; then straight out of the window they 

happened ? She put on her best petticoat, and 
laced her blue bodice ; for she thought the mother 
would perhaps take them across the wood to the little 
chapel for the Christmas service. Her long hair 
smoothed and tied, her shoes trimly fastened, down- 
stairs she ran. The mother was stirring porridge 
over the fire. Toinette went close to her. but she 
did not move or turn her head. 

" How late the children are ! " she said at last, 



flew like a swarm of gauzy-winged bees, and melt- 
ed into the moonlight. Toinette jumped up and 
ran to watch them ; but the little men were gone 
— not a trace of them was to be seen ; so she shut 
the window, went back to bed, and presently, in 
the midst of her amazed and excited thoughts, fell 

She waked in the morning with a queer, doubt- 
fill feeling. Had she dreamed, or had it rcallv 

lifting the boiling pot on the hob. Then she 
went to the stair-foot, and called, " Marc, Jeanne- 
ton, Pierre, Marie ! Breakfast is ready, my chil- 
dren. Toinette — but where, then, is Toinette? 
She is used to be down long before this." 

"Toinette is n't upstairs," said Marie, from 
above. "•Her door is wide open, and she isn't 

'• That is strange ! " said the mother. " I have 




been here an hour, and she has not passed this 
way since." She went to the outer door and 
called, " Toinette ! Toinette ! " — passing close to 
Toinette as she did so, and looking straight at 
her with unseeing eyes. Toinette, half-frightened, 
half-pleased, giggled low to herself. She really 
was invisible then ! How strange it seemed, and 
what fun it was going to be ! 

The children sat down to breakfast, little Jean- 
neton, as the youngest, saying grace. The mother 
distributed the hot porridge, and gave each a 
spoon, but she looked anxious. 

"Where can Toinette have gone?" she said to 

Toinette was consoience-pricked. She was half 
inclined to dispel the charm on the spot. But just 
then she caught a whisper from Pierre to Marc, 
which so surprised her as to put the idea out of 
her head. 

" Perhaps a wolf has eaten her up — a great big 
wolf, like the ' Capuchon Rouge,' you know." 
This was what Pierre said ; and Marc answered, 
unfeelingly : 

" If he has, I shall ask mother to let me have 
her room for my own ! " 

Poor Toinette ! her cheeks burnt and her eyes 
filled with tears at this. Did n't the boys love her 
a bit, then ? Next she grew angry, and longed to 
box Marc's ears, only she recollected in time that 
she was invisible. What a bad boy he was ! she 

The smoking porridge reminded her that she 
was hungry ; so brushing away the tears, she slip- 
ped a spoon off the table, and whenever she found 
the chance, dipped it into the bowl for a mouthful. 
The porridge disappeared rapidly. 

" I want some more," said Jeanneton. 

" Bless me, how fast you have eaten ! " said the 
mother, turning to the bowl. 

This made Toinette laugh, which shook her 
spoon, and a drop of the hot mixture fell right on 
the tip of Marie's nose, as she sat with up-turned 
face waiting her turn for a second helping. Marie 
gave a little scream. 

"What is it?" said the mother. 

"Hot water! Right in my face!" spluttered 

" Water ! " cried Marc. " It's porridge." 

"You spattered with your spoon. Eat more 
carefully, my child," said the mother; and Toi- 
nette laughed again as she heard her. After all. 
there was some fun in being invisible ! 

The morning went by. Constantly the mother 
went to the door, and, shading her eyes with 
her hand, looked out, in hopes of seeing a little 
figure come down the wood-path, for she thought, 
perhaps, the child went to the spring after water. 

and fell asleep there. The children played happily, 
meanwhile. They were used to doing without Toi- 
nette. and did not seem to miss her, except that 
now and then baby Jeanneton said: "Poor Toi- 
nette gone — not here — all gone ! " 

"Well, what if she has?" said Marc at last, 
looking up from the wooden cup he was carving 
for Marie's doll. "We can play all the better." 

Marc was a bold, outspoken boy, who always 
told his whole mind about things. 

" If she were here," he went on, "she 'd only 
scold and interfere. Toinette almost always 
scolds. I like to have her go away. It makes it 

" It is rather pleasanter," admitted Marie, " only 
I 'd like her to be having a nice time somewhere 

" Bother about Toinette ! " cried Pierre. " Let's 
play ' My godmother has cabbage to sell.' " 

I don 't think Toinette had ever felt so unhappy 
in her life, as when she stood by unseen, and heard 
the children say these words. She had never meant 
to be unkind to them, but she was quick-tempered, 
dreamy, wrapped up in herself. She did not like 
being interrupted by them, it put her out, and then 
she spoke sharply and was cross. She had taken 
it for granted that the others must love her, by a 
sort of right, and the knowledge that they did not 
grieved her very much. Creeping away, she hid 
herself in the woods. It was a sparkling day, but 
the sun did not look so bright as usual. Cuddled 
down under a rose-bush, Toinette sat, sobbing as if 
her heart would break at the recollection of the 
speeches she had overheard. 

By and by a little voice within her woke up 
and began to make itself audible. All of us know 
this little voice. We call it conscience. 

"Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, 
oh dear ! I pushed her away only last night and 
would n't tell her a story. And Marie hoped I was 
having a pleasant time somewhere. I wish I had n't 
slapped Marie last Friday. And I wish I hadn't 
thrown Marc's ball into the fire that day I was 
angry with him. How unkind he was to say 
that — but I was n't always kind to him. And once 
I said that I wished a bear would eat Pierre up. 
That was because he broke my cup. Oh dear, oh 
dear ! What a bad girl I 've been to them all ! " 

" But you could be better and kinder if you tried, 
couldn't you?" said the inward voice. "I think 
you could." And Toinette clasped her hands 
tight and said out loud : "I could. Yes — and I 

The first thing to be done was to get rid of the 
fern-seed, which she now regarded as a hateful 
thing. She untied her shoes and shook it out in] 
the grass. It dropped and seemed to melt into the 

i8 7 6.] 



air, for it instantly vanished. A mischievous laugh 
sounded close behind, and a beetle-green coat-tail 
was visible, whisking under a tuft of rushes. But 
Toinette had had enough of the elves, and tying 
her shoes, took the road toward home, running 
with all her might. 

"Where have you been all day, Toinette?" 
cried the children, as, breathless and panting, she 
flew in at the gate. But Toinette could not speak. 
She made slowly foi; her mother, who stood in the 
door-way, flung herself into her arms, and burst 
into a passion of tears. 

" Ma cherie, what is it, whence hast thou come ? " 
asked the good mother, alarmed. She lifted Toi- 
nette into her arms as she spoke, and hastened 
indoors. The other children followed, whispering 
and peeping, but the mother sent them away, and. 
sitting down by the fire with Toinette in her lap. 
she rocked and hushed and comforted, as though 
Toinette had been again a little baby. Gradually 
the sobs ceased. For awhile Toinette lay quiet, 
with her head on her mother's breast. Then she 
wiped her wet eyes, put her arms around her 
mother's neck, and told her all from the very be- 
ginning, keeping not a single thing back. The 
dame listened with alarm. 

"Saints protect us," she muttered. Then feel- 
ing Toinette's hands and head, "Thou hast a 
fever," she said. " I will make thee a tisane, my 
darling, and thou must at once go to bed." Toi- 
nette vainly protested ; to bed she went, and per- 
haps it was the wisest thing, for the warm drink 
threw her into a long, sound sleep, and when she 
woke she was herself again, bright and well, hun- 
gry for dinner, and ready to do her usual tasks. 

Herself, — but not quite the same Toinette that 
she had been before. Nobody changes from bad 
to better in a minute. It takes time for that, time 
and effort and a long struggle with evil habits and 
tempers. But there is sometimes-a certain minute 
or day in which people begin to change, and thus 
it was with Toinette. The fairy lesson was not 
lost upon her. She began to fight with herself, to 
watch her faults and try to conquer them. It was 
hard work ; often she felt discouraged, but she kept 
on. Week after week and month after month, she 
grew less selfish, kinder, mure obliging than she 
used to be. When she failed, and her old fractious 
temper got the better of her. she was sorry, and 
begged every one's pardon so humbly, that they 
could not but forgive. The mother began to think 
that the elves really had bewitched her child. As for 
the children, they learned to love Toinette as never 
before, and came to her with all their pains and 
pleasures, as children should to a kind older sister. 
Each fresh proof of this, each kiss from Jeanneton, 
each confidence from Marc, was a comfort to 

Toinette, for she never forgot Christmas-day, and 
felt that no trouble was too much to wipe out that 
unhappy recollection. " I think they like me bet- 
ter than they did then," she would say. but then 
the thought came, " Perhaps if I were invisible 
again, if they did not know I was there, I might 
hear something to make me feel as badly as I 
did that morning." These sad thoughts were part 
of the bitter fruit of the fairy fern-seed. 

So with doubts and fears the year went by. and 
again it was Christmas Eve. Toinette had been 
asleep some hours, when she was roused by a sharp 
tapping at the window pane. Startled and only 
half-awake, she sat up in bed, and saw by the 
moonlight, a tiny figure outside, which she recog- 
nized. It was Thistle, drumming with his knuckles 
on the glass. 

•• Let me in," cried the dry little voice. So 
Toinette opened the casement, and Thistle flew in 
and perched, as before, on the coverlet. 

"Merry Christmas, my girl." he said, "and a 
Happy New Year when it comes ! I Ve brought 
you a present ; " and, dipping into a pouch tied 
round his waist, he pulled out a handful of some- 
thing brown. Toinette knew what it was in a 

"Oh, no!" she cried, shrinking back. "Don't 
give me any fern-seeds. They frighten me. I 
don't like them." 

"Now, don't be silly," said Thistle, his voice 
sounding kind this time, and earnest. " It was n't 
pleasant being invisible last year, but perhaps this 
year it will be. Take my advice and try it. You '11 
not be sorry." 

" Sha' n't I ?" said Toinette. brightening. "Very- 
well then, I will." She leaned out of bed, and 
watched Thistle strew the fine, dust-like grains in 
each shoe. 

- * I '11 drop in to-morrow night, and just see how 
you like it," he said. Then, with a nod, he was 
gone. - 

The old fear came back when she woke in the 
morning, and she tied on her shoes with a tremble 
at her heart. Down-stairs she stole. The first 
thing she saw was a wooden ship standing on her 
plate. Marc had made the ship, but Toinette had 
no idea that it was for her. 

The little ones sat round the table with their eyes 
on the door, watching till Toinette should come 
in, and be surprised. 

" I wish she 'd hurry," said Pierre, drumming on 
his bowl with a spoon. 

"We all want Toinette. don't we?" said the 
mother, smiling as she poured the hot porridge. 

" It will be fun to see her stare." declared Marc. 
"Toinette is jolly when she stares. Her eyes look 
big, and her cheeks grow pink. Andre Brugen 




thinks his sister Aline is prettiest, but I don't 
Our Toinette is ever so pretty." 

" She is ever so nice, too," said Pierre. " She ': 
as good to play with as — as — a boy ! " he finished 

"Oh, I wish my Toinette 

Toinette waited no longer 
with glad tears in her eyes. 



but sped upstairs 
Two minutes, and 

down she came again, visible this time. Her heart 
was light as a feather. 

" Merry Christmas!" clamored the children. The 
ship was presented, Toinette was duly surprised, 
and so the happy day began. 

That night Toinette left the window open, and 
lay down in her clothes : for she felt, as Thistle had 
been so kind, she ought to receive him politely. 

He came at midnight, and with him all the other 
little men in green. 

" Well, how was it ? " asked Thistle. 

"Oh, I liked it this time," declared Toinette. 
with shining eyes. "And I thank you so much ! " 

"I'm glad you did," said the elf. "And I '111 
glad you are thankful, for we want you to do some- 
thing for us." 

" What can it be ? " inquired Toinette, wonder- 

" You must know." went on Thistle, " that there 
is no dainty in the world which we elves enjoy like 
a bowl of fern-seed broth. But it has 'to be cooked 
over a real fire, and we dare not go near fire, you 
know, lest our wings scorch. So we seldom get any 
fern-seed broth. Now, Toinette — will you make 
us some ? " 

'* Indeed I will," cried Toinette, " only you must 
tell me how." 

"It is very simple," said Peascod : "only seed 
and honey dew, stirred from left to right with a sprig 
of fennel. Here's the seed and the fennel, and 
here 's the dew. Be sure and stir from the left ; if 
you don't, it curdles, and the flavor will be spoiled." 

Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette, 
moving very softly, quickened the fire, set on the 
smallest bowl she could find, and spread the doll's 
table with the wooden saucers which Marc had made 
for Jeanneton to play with. Then she mixed and 
stirred as the elves bade, and when the soup was 
done, served it to them smoking hot. How they 
feasted ! No bumble-bee, dipping into a flower- 
cup, ever sipped and twinkled more rapturously 
than they. 

When the last drop was eaten, they made ready 
to go. Each, in turn, kissed Toinette's hand, and 
said a little word of farewell. Thistle brushed his 
feathered cap over the door-post as he passed. 

"Be lucky, house," he said, "for you have re- 
ceived and entertained the luck-bringers. And be 
lucky. Toinette. Good temper is good luck, and 
sweet words and kind looks and peace in the heart 
are the fairest of fortunes. See that you never lose 
them again, my girl." With this, he, too, kissed 
Toinette's hand, waved his feathered cap and — 
whirr ! they all were gone, while Toinette, cover- 
ing the fire with ashes, and putting aside the 
little cups, stole up to her bed a happy child. 

,8 7 6.) 




Goon news on Christmas morning. 

Good news, O children dear ! 
For Christ, once born in Bethlehem, 

Is living now, and here ! 

Good news on Christmas morning, 
Good news, O children sweet ! 

The way to find the Holy Child 
Is lighted for vonr feet. 

Good news on Christmas morning. 

Good news, O children glad ! 
Rare gifts are yours to give the Lord 

As ever Wise Men had. 

Good news on Christmas morning. 

Good news. O children fair ! 
Still doth the one Good Shepherd hold 

The leeblest in his care. 

Thank God on Christmas morning. 
Thank God, O children dear ! 

That Christ who came to Bethlehem 
Is living now, and here. 

1 7 8 




By Bayard Taylor. 

Chapter I. 

The boys of Iceland must be content with very 
few acquaintances or playmates. The valleys which 
produce grass enough for the farmer's ponies, cattle 
and sheep, are generally scattered widely apart, 
divided by ridges of lava so hard and cold that 
only a few wild flowers succeed in growing in their 
cracks and hollows. Then, since the farms must 
be all the larger, because the grass is short and 
grows slowly in such a severe northern climate, the 
dwellings are rarely nearer than four or five miles 
apart ; and were it not for their swift and nimble 
ponies, the people would see very little of each 
other except on. Sundays, when they ride long dis- 
tances to attend worship in their little wooden 

But of all boys in the island, not one was so 
lonely in his situation as Jon Sigurdson. His father 
lived many miles beyond that broad, grassy plain 
which stretches from the Geysers to the sea, on the 
banks of the swift river Thiorva. On each side 
there were mountains so black and bare that they 
looked like gigantic piles of coal ; but the valley 
opened to the southward as if to let the sun in, 
and far away, when the weather was clear, the 
snowy top of Mount Hecla shone against the sky. 
The farmer Sigurd, Jon's father, was a poor man, 
or he would not have settled so far away from any 
neighbors ; for he was of a cheerful and social 
nature, and there were few at Kyrkedal who could 
vie with him in knowledge of the ancient history 
and literature of Iceland. 

The house was built on a knoll, under a cliff 
which sheltered it from the violent west and north- 
west winds. The walls, of lava stones and turf, 
were low and broad ; and the roofs over dwelling, 
storehouses, and stables were covered deep with 
earth, upon which grew such excellent grass that 
the ponies were fond of climbing up the sloping 
corners of the wall in order to get at it. Some- 
times they might be seen, cunningly balanced on 
the steep sides of the roof, grazing along the very 
ridge-poles, or looking over the end of the gable 
when some member of the family came out of the 
door, as much as to say, " Get me down if you 
can ! " Around the buildings there was a square 
wall of inclosure, giving the place the appearance 
of a little fortress. 

On one side of the knoll a hot spring bubbled 
up. In the morning or evening, when the air was 

cool, quite a little column of steam arose from it, 
whirling and broadening as it melted away ; but 
the water was pure and wholesome as soon as it 
became cold enough for use. In front of the house, 
where the sun shone warmest, Sigurd had laid out 
a small garden. It was a great labor for him to 
remove the huge stones and roll them into a pro- 
tecting wall, to carry good soil from the places 
where the mountain rills had gradually washed it 
down from above, and to arrange it so that frosts 
and cold rains should do the least harm ; and the 
whole family thought themselves suddenly rich, 
one summer, when they pulled their first radishes, 
saw the little bed of potatoes coming into blossom, 
and the cabbages rolling up their leaves, in order 
to make, at least, baby-heads before the winter 

Within the house, all was low, and dark, and 
dismal. The air was very close and bad, for the 
stables were only separated from the dwelling-room 
by a narrow passage, and bunches of dry, salt fish 
hung on the walls. Besides, it was usually full 
of smoke from the fire of peat, and, after a rain, of 
steam from Sigurd's and Jon's heavy woolen coats. 
But to the boy it was a delightful, a comfortable 
home, for within it he found shelter, warmth, food 
and instruction. The room for visitors seemed to 
him the most splendid place in the world, because 
it had a wooden floor, a window with six panes of 
glass, a colored print of the King of Denmark, and 
a geranium in a pot. This was so precious a plant 
that Jon and his sister Gudrid hardly dared to 
touch its leaves. They were almost afraid to smell 
it, for fear of sniffing away some of its life ; and 
Gudrid, after seeing a -leaf of it laid on her dead 
sister's bosom, insisted that some angel, many hun- 
dred years ago, had brought the seed straight down 
from heaven. 

These were Sigurd's only children. There had 
been several more, but they had died in infancy. 
from the want of light and pure air, and the great 
distance from help when sickness came. Gudrid 
was still pale and slender, except in summer, when 
her mild, friendly face took color from the sun ; 
but Jon, who was now fourteen, was a sturdy, 
broad-breasted boy, who promised to be as strong 
as his father in a few years more. He had thick 
yellow hair, curling a little around his forehead ; 
large, bright blue eyes ; and a mouth rather too 
broad for beauty, if the lips had not been so rosy 

i8 7 6.] 



and the teeth so white and firm. He had a serious 
look, but it was only because he smiled with his 
eyes oftener than with his mouth. He was naturally 
true and good, for he hardly knew what evil was. 
Except his parents and his sister, he saw no one 
for weeks at a time ; and when he. met other boys 

the cows were warmly stabled and content with 
their meals of boiled hay ; when the needful work 
of the day could be done in an hour or two, and 
then Sigurd sat down to teach his children, while 
their mother spun or knit beside them, and" from 
time to time took part in the instruction. Jon 


after church at Kyrkedal, so much time always was 
lost in shyly looking at each other and shrinking 
from the talk which each wanted to begin, that no 
' very intimate acquaintance followed. 

But, in spite of his lonely life, Jon was far 
from being ignorant. There were the long win- 
ter months, when the ponies — and sometimes the 
sheep — pawed holes in the snow in order to reach 
the grass on the bottoms beside the river ; when 

could already read and write so well that the pastor 
at Kyrkedal lent him many an old Icelandic legend 
to copy ; he knew the history of the island, as well 
as that of Norway and Denmark, and could answer 
(with a good deal of blushing) when he was ad- 
dressed in Latin. He also knew something of the 
world, and its different countries and climates ; 
but this knowledge seemed to him like a strange 
dream, or like something that happened long ago 




and never could happen again. He was accus- 
tomed to hear a little birch-bush, four or five feet 
high, called "a tree," and he could not imagine 
how any tree could be a hundred feet high, or bear 
flowers and fruit. Once, a trader from Rejkiavik — 
the chief seaport of Iceland — brought a few oranges 
to Kyrkedal, and Sigurd purchased one for Jon 
and Gudrid. The children kept it, day after day. 
never tired of enjoying the splendid color and 
strange, delightful perfume ; so that when they 
decided to cut the rind at last, the pulp was dried 
up and tasteless. A city was something of which 
Jon could form no conception, for he had never 
even seen Rejkiavik ; he imagined that palaces and 
cathedrals were like large Icelandic farm-houses, 
with very few windows, and turf growing on the 

Chapter II. 

SIGURD'S wealth, if it could be called so, was in 
a small flock of sheep, the pasture for which was 
scattered in patches for miles up and down the 
river. The care of these sheep had been intrusted 
chiefly to Jon, ever since he was eight years old, 
and he had learned their natures and ways — their 
simple animal virtues and silly animal vices — so 
thoroughly, that they acquired a great respect for 
him, and very rarely tried to be disobedient. Even 
Thor. the ram, although he sometimes snorted and 
tossed his horns in protest, or stamped impatiently 
with his fore- feet, heeded his master's voice. In 
fact, the sheep became Jon's companions, in the 
absence of human ones ; he talked to them so 
much during the lonely days, that it finally seemed 
as if they understood a great deal of his speech. 

There was a rough bridle-path leading up the 
valley of the Thiorva ; but it was rarely traveled, 
for it struck northward into the cold, windy, stony 
desert which fills all the central part of Iceland. 
For a hundred and fifty miles there was no dwell- 
ing, no shelter from the fierce and sudden storms, 
and so little grass that the travelers who sometimes 
crossed the region ran the risk of losing their 
ponies from starvation. There were lofty plains 
of black rock, as hard as iron ; groups of bare, 
snowy-headed mountains : and often, at night, you 
could see a pillar of fire in the distance, showing 
that one of the many volcanoes was in action. 
Beyond this terrible wilderness the grassy valleys 
began again, and there were houses and herds, 
increasing as you came down to the bright bays 
along the northern shore of the island. 

More than once, a trader or Government mes- 
senger, after crossing the desert, had rested for a 
night under Sigurd's roof; and many were the 
tales of their adventures which Jon had treasured 
up in his memory. Sometimes they spoke of the 

trolls, or mischievous fairies, who came over with 
the first settlers from Norway, and were still sup- 
posed by man)- persons to lurk among the dark 
glens of Iceland. Both Sigurd and the pastor at 
Kyrkedal had declared that there were no such 
creatures, and Jon believed them faithfully ; yet he 
could not help wondering, as he sat upon some 
rocky knoll overlooking his sheep, whether a strange 
little figure might not come out of the chasm oppo- 
site, and speak to him. The more he heard of the 
terrors and dangers of the desert to the northward, 
the more he longed to see them with his own eyes 
and know them through his own experience. He 
was not the least afraid ; but he knew that his 
father would never allow him to go alone, and to 
disobey a father was something of which he had 
never heard, and could not have believed to be 

When he was in his fifteenth year, however (it 
was summer, and he was fourteen in April), there 
came several weeks when no rain fell in the valley. 
It was a lovely season for the garden ; even the 
geranium in the window put forth twice as many 
scarlet blossoms as ever before. Only the sheep 
began to hunger ; for the best patch of grass in 
front of the house was carefully kept for hay, and 
the next best, further down the river, for the ponies. 
Beyond the latter, the land belonged to another. 
So Jon was obliged to lead his flock to a narrow 
little dell, which came down to the Thiorva, three 
or four miles to the northward. Here, for a week, 
they nibbled diligently wherever anything green 
showed itself at the foot of the black rocks ; and 
when the pasture grew scanty again, they began 
to stare at Jon in a way which many persons might 
have thought stupid. He understood them ; they 
meant to say,: "We've nearly finished this; find 
us something more ! " 

That evening, as he was leading his flock into 
the little inclosure beside the dwelling, he heard 
his father and mother talking. He thought it no 
harm to listen, for they had never said anything 
that was not kind and friendly. It seemed, how- 
ever, that they were speaking of him, and the very 
first words he heard made his heart beat more 

"Two days' journey away," said Sigurd; "and 
excellent pastures that belong to nobody. There 
is no sign of rain yet, and if we could send Jon with 
the sheep " 

' ' Are you sure of it ? " his wife asked. 

" Eyvindur stopped to talk with me," he an- 
swered ; " and he saw the place this morning. He 
says there were rains in the desert, and, indeed, 
I 've thought so myself, because the river has not 
fallen ; and he never knew as pleasant a season to 
cross the country." 

,8 7 6.J 



"Jon might have to stay out a week or two; 
but, as you say, Sigurd, we should save our flock. 
The boy may be trusted, I 'm sure ; only, if any- 
thing should happen to him ? " 

"I don't think he's fearsome," said Sigurd; 
" and what should happen to him there, that might 
not happen nearer home ? " 

They moved away, while Jon clasped the palms 
of his hands hard against each other, and stood 
still for a minute to repeat to himself all he had 
heard. He knew Eyvindur, the tall, strong man 
with the dark curling hair, who rode the swift 
cream-colored pony, with black mane and tail. He 
knew what his father meant — nothing else than 
that he, Jon, should take the sheep two days' jour- 
ney away, to the very edge of the terrible wilder- 
ness, and pasture them there, alone, probably, for 
many days ! Why, Columbus, when he set sail 
from Palos, could not have had a brighter dream 
of unknown lands ! Jon went in to supper in such 
a state of excitement that he hardly touched the 
dried fish and hard oaten bread ; but he drank two 
huge bowls of milk and still felt thirsty. When, 
at last, Sigurd opened his lips and spake, and the 
mother sat silent with her eyes fixed upon her son's 
<face, and Gudrid looked frightened, Jon straight- 
ened himself as if he were already a man, and 
quietly said: " I '11 do it !" 

He wanted to shout aloud for joy ; but Gudrid 
began to cry. 

However, when a thing had once been decided 
in the family, that was the end of any question or 
.remonstrance, and even Gudrid forgot her fears in 
the interest of preparing a supply of food for Jon 
during his absence. They slept soundly for a few 
hours; and then, at two o'clock in the morning, 
when the sun was already shining on the snowy 
tops of the Arne Mountains, Jon hung the bag of 
, provisions over his shoulder, kissed his parents and 
lister, and started northward, driving the sheep 
oefore him. 

Chapter III. 

In a couple of hours he reached the farthest 
lipoint of the valley which he had ever visited, and 
ill beyond was an unknown region. But the 
icenery, as he went onward, was similar in charac- 
ter. The mountains were higher and more abrupt, 
:he river more rapid and foamy, and the patches 
>f grass more scanty — that was all the difference, 
t was the Arctic summer, and the night brought 
10 darkness ; yet he knew when the time for rest 
;ame, by watching the direction of the light on 
he black mountains above. When the sheep lay 
lown, he sought a sheltered place under a rock, 
ind slept also. 
Next day, the country grew wilder and more for- 

bidding. Sometimes there was hardly a blade of 
grass to be seen for miles, and he drove the sheep 
at full speed, running and shouting behind them, 
in his eagerness to reach the distant pasture which 
Eyvindur had described. In the afternoon, the 
valley appeared to come suddenly to an end. The 
river rushed out of a deep cleft between the rocks, 
only a few feet wide, on the right hand ; in front 
there was a long stony slope, reaching so high that 
the clouds brushed along its summit. In the bot- 
tom there was some little grass, but hardly enough 
to feed the flock for two days. 

Jon was disappointed, but not much discouraged. 
He tethered Thor securely to a rock, knowing that 
the other sheep would remain near him, and set 
out to climb the slope. Up and up he toiled ; the 
air grew sharp and cold ; there was snow and ice 
in the shaded hollows on either side, and the dark, 
strange scenery of Iceland grew broader below him. 
Finally, he gained the top ; and now, for the first 
time, felt that he had found a new world. In front, 
toward the north, there was a plain stretching as 
far as he could see ; on the right and left there 
were groups of dark, frightful, inaccessible mount- 
ains, between the sharp peaks of which sheets of 
blue ice plunged downward like cataracts, only 
they were silent and motionless. The valley be- 
hind him was a mere cleft in the stony, lifeless 
world ; his sheep were little white dots, no bigger, 
apparently, than flowers of life-everlasting. He 
could only guess, beyond the dim ranges in the 
distance, where his father's dwelling lay; and. for a 
single moment, the thought came into his mind and 
made him tremble— should he ever see it again ? 

The pasture, he reflected, must be sought for in 
the direction from which the river came. Follow- 
ing the ridge to the eastward, it was not long before 
he saw a deep basin, a mile in diameter, opening 
among the hills. The bottom was quite green, and 
there was a sparkle here and there, where the river 
wound its way through it. This was surely the 
place, and Jon felt proud that he had so readily 
discovered it. There were several glens which fur- 
nished easy paths down from the table-land, and 
he had no difficulty, the next morning, in leading 
his flock over the great ridge. In fact, they skipped 
up the rocks as if they knew what was coming, and 
did not wait for Jon to show them the way into the 

The first thing the boy did, after satisfying him- 
self that the sheep were not likely to stray away 
from such excellent pasturage, was to seek for a 
cave or hollow among the rocks, where he could 
find shelter from storms. There were several such 
places ; he selected the most convenient, which 
had a natural shelf for his store of provisions, and. 
having dried enough grass to make a warm, soft 




bed, he found himself very comfortably established. 
For three or four days, he was too busy to feel his 
loneliness. The valley belonged to nobody ; so 
he considered it his own property, and called it 
Gudridsdale, after his sister. Then, in order to 
determine the boundaries of this new estate, he 
climbed the heights in all directions, and fixed the 
forms of every crag and hollow firmly in his mem- 
ory. He was not without the secret hope that he 
might come upon some strange and remarkable 
object, — a deserted house, a high tree, or a hot 
fountain shooting up jets like the Great Geyser, — 
but there was nothing. Only the black and stony 
wilderness near at hand, and a multitude of snowy 
peaks in the distance. 

Thus ten days passed. The grass was not yet 
exhausted, the sheep grew fat and lazy, and Jon 
had so thoroughly explored the neighborhood of 
the valley that he could have found his way in the 
dark. He knew that there were only barren, un- 
inhabitable regions to the right and left ; but the 
great, bare table-land stretching to the northward 
was a continual temptation, for there were human 
settlements beyond. As he wandered farther and 
farther in that direction, he found it harder to re- 
turn ; there was always a ridge in advance, the 
appearance of a mountain pass, the sparkle of a 
little lake — some promise of something to be seen 
by going just a little beyond his turning-point. 
He was so careful to notice every slight feature of 
the scenery, — a jutting rock here, a crevice there, 
— in case mist or rain should overtake him on the 
way, that the whole region soon became strangely 

Jon's desire to explore the road leading to the 
northward grew so strong, that he at last yielded 
to it. But first he made every arrangement for 
the safety of the sheep during his absence. He 
secured the ram Thor by a long tether and an 
abundance of cut grass, concealed the rest of his 
diminishing supply of provisions ; climbed the near- 
est heights and overlooked the country on all sides 
without discovering a sign of life, and then, after a 
rest which was more like a waking dream than a 
slumber, began his strange and solitary journey. 

The sun had just become visible again, low in 
the north-east, when he reached the level of the 
table-land. There were few clouds in the sky, and 
but little wind blowing ; yet a singular brownish 
haze filled the air, and spots of strong light soon 
appeared on either side of the sun. Jon had often 
seen these " mock suns " before ; they are frequent 
in northern latitudes, and are supposed to denote 
a change in the weather. This phenomenon, and 
a feeling of heaviness in the air, led him to study 
the landmarks very keenly and cautiously as he 
advanced. In two or three hours he had passed 

the limits of his former excursions ; and now, if a 
storm should arise, his very life might depend on 
his being able to find the way back. 

During the day, however, there was no change 
in the weather. The lonely, rugged mountains, 
the dark little lakes of melted snow lying at their 
feet, the stony plain, with its great irregular fissures 
where the lava had cracked in cooling, — all these 
features of the great central desert of Iceland lay 
hard and clear before his eyes. Like all persons 
who are obliged to measure time without a watch 
or clock, he had a very correct sense of the hours 
of the day, and of the distances he walked from 
point to point. Where there was no large or 
striking object near at hand, he took the trouble to 
arrange several stones in a line pointing to the next 
landmark behind him, as a guide in case of fog. 

It was an exciting, a wonderful day in his life, 
and Jon never forgot it. He never once thought 
of the certain danger which he incurred. Instead 
of fear, he was full of a joyous, inspiring courage ; 
he sang and shouted aloud, as some new.peakor 
ridge of hills arose far in front, or some other peak, 
already familiar, went out of sight far behind him. 
He scarcely paused to eat or rest, until nearly twelve 
hours had passed, and he had walked fully thirty 
miles. By that time the sun was low in the west, 
and barely visible through the gathering haze. 
The wind moaned around the rocks with a dreary, 
melancholy sound, and only the cry of a wild swan 
was heard in the distance. To the north the 
mountains seemed higher, but they were divided 
by deep gaps which indicated the commencement 
of valleys. There, perhaps, there might be run- 
ning streams, pastures, and the dwellings of men ! 

Jon had intended to return to his flock on the 
morrow, but now the temptation to press onward 
for another day became very great. His limbs, 
however, young and strong as they were, needed 
some rest ; and he speedily decided what to do 
next. A lighter streak in the rocky floor of the 
plain led his eye toward a low, broken peak — in 
reality, the crater of a small, extinct volcano — some 
five miles off, and lying to the right of what he 
imagined to be the true course. On the left there 
were other peaks, but immediately in front nothing 
which would serve as a landmark. The crater, 
therefore, besides offering him some shelter in its 
crevices, was decidedly the best starting-point, 
either for going on or returning. The lighter color 
of the rock came from some different mixture in 
the lava of an old eruption, and could easily be 
traced throughout the whole intervening distance. 
He followed it rapidly, now that the bearings were 
laid down, and reached the ruins of the volcano a 
little after sunset. 

There was no better bed to be found than the 

i8 7 6.] 


bottom of a narrow cleft, where the winds, after 
blowing for many centuries, had deposited a thin 
layer of sand. Before he lay down, Jon arranged 
a line of stones, pointing toward the light streak 
across the plain, and another line giving the direc- 
tion of the valleys to the northward. To the latter 
he added two short, slanting lines at the end, form- 
ing a figure like an arrow-head, and then, highly 
satisfied with his ingenuity, lay down in the crevice 
to sleep. But his brain was so excited that for a 

long time he could do nothing else than go over, 
in memory, the day's journey. The wind seemed 
to be rising, for it whistled like a tremendous fife 
through the rocky crevice ; father and mother and 
Gudrid seemed to be far, far away, in a different 
land : he wondered, at last, whether he was the 
same Jon Sigurdson who drove the flock of sheep 
up the valley of the Thidrva — and then, all at once, 
he stopped wondering and thinking, for he was too 
soundly asleep to dream even of a roasted potato. 

(To be continued.) 


By E. M. S. 

'T WAS Christmas in a Southern town. 

The air was soft and sweet, 
And the sinking sun looked brightly down 

On the gay and crowded street, 
While roses and violets blooming near 
Made my little girl say, " Is it Christmas here ? 

' At home the snow is on the ground. 
The air is cold and clear, 
And greens and holly are hung around. 

To help the Christmas cheer. 
How can St. Nicholas come in his sleigh, 
If all the snow is melted away ? 

What will he do with his big fur coat. 

The icicles on his hair ? 
The tinkling bells wont sound a note, 

With no Jack Frost in the air. 
'T would just be folly, O mother dear ! 
To hang up my stocking — no Christmas here ! " 

But I said, '" I see the Christmas star 

High in these Southern skies, 
And the Christmas light is streaming far, 

And shines in the people's eyes. 
I 'm sure St. Nick will find the way 
Without Jack Frost and the reindeer sleigh.'' 

Early my little girl went to bed. 

That the night might shorter seem ; 

And scarce had she pillowed her curly head. 
Than she dreamed a beautiful dream, 

And wondrous music seemed to bear 

A message of joy on the balmy air. 

Nearer and nearer it seemed to come. 

Sweeter and sweeter it grew. 
Till the Christmas light was in the room, 

And the Christmas glory too ; 
While,the angels' song rang from the sky,— 
"All glory be to God on high ! " 

••All glory be to God on high. 
And peace, good-will on earth ! " 

Thus joyous rose the angels' cry, 
To hail Our Saviour's birth ; — 

And ere the radiance passed away. 

The light had dawned on Christmas-day. 

1 84 




(A Hoosier Fairy Story.) 

By Edward Eggleston. 

■= =3^{: 

OD think that folks in 
fine clothes are the only 
folks that ever see fair- 
ies, and that poor folks 
can't afford them. But 
in the days of the real 
old-fashioned "Green 
Jacket and White Owl's 
Feather " fairies, it was 
the poor boy carrying 

his widowed mother who 
saw wonders of all sorts 
wrought by the little 
people ; and it was the 
poor girl who had a fairy 
godmother. It must 
be confessed that the 
mystery-working, dew- 
drop dancing, wand- 
waving, pumpkin-met- 
amorphosing little rascals have been spoiled of late 
years by being admitted into fine houses. Having 
their pictures painted by artists, their praises sung 
by poets, their adventures told in gilt-edge books, 
and, above all, getting into the delicious leaves of 
St. Nicholas, has made them " stuck up," so that 
it is not the poor girl in the cinders, nor the boy 
with a bundle of faggots now, but girls who wear 
button boots and tie-back skirts, and boys with 
fancy waists and striped stockings, that are be- 
friended by fairies whom they do not need. 

But away off from the cities there still live a race 
of unflattered fairies who are not snobbish, and who 
love little girls and boys in pinafores and ragged 
jackets. These sprites are not very handsrftne, and 
so the artists do not draw their pictures, and they 
do not get into gilt-edge Christmas books. Dear, 
ugly, good fairies ! I hope they will not be spoiled 
by my telling you something about them. 

Little Bobby Towpate saw some of them ; and it's 
about Bobby, and the fairies he saw, that I want 
to speak. Bobby was the thirteenth child in a rather 
large family — there were three younger than he. 
He lived in a log cabin on the banks of a stream, 
the right name of which is " Indian Kentucky 
Creek." I suppose it was named " Indian Ken- 
tucky" because it is not in Kentucky, but in Indi- 
ana; and as for Indians, they have been gone many 
a day. The people always call it " The Injun 

Kaintuck." They tuck up the name to make it 

Bobby was only four years and three-quarters 
old. but he had been in pantaloons for three years 
and a half, for the people in the Indian Kaintuck 
put their little boys into breeches as soon as they 
can walk — perhaps a little before. And such 
breeches ! The little white-headed fellows look 
like dwarf grandfathers, thirteen hundred years of 
age. They go toddling about like old men who 
have grown little again, and forgotten everything 
they ever knew. 

But Bobby Towpate was not ugly. Under his 
white hair, which "looked every way for Sunday." 
were blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, and a mouth as 
pretty as it was solemn. The comical little fellow 
wore an unbleached cotton shirt, and tattered pant- 
aloons, with home-made suspenders or "gallowses." 
The pantaloons had always been old, I think, for 
they were made out of a pair of his father's — his 
"daddy's," as he would have told you — and no- 
body ever knew his father to have a new pair, so 
they must have been old from the beginning. For 
in the Indian Kaintuck country nothing ever seems 
to be new. Bobby Towpate himself was born 
looking about a thousand years old, and had aged 
some centuries already. As for hat, he wore one 
of his daddy's old hats when he wore any,' and it 
would have answered well for an umbrella if it had 
not been ragged. 

Bobby's play-ground was anywhere along the 
creek in the woods. There were so many children 
that there was nobody to look after him ; so he just 
kept a careful eye on himself, and that made it all 
right. As he was not a very eneigetic child, there 
was no danger of his running into mischief. In- 
deed, he never ran at all. He was given to sitting 
down on the ground and listening to the crazy 
singing of the loons — birds whose favorite amuse- 
ment consists in trying to see which can make the 
most hideous noise. Then, too, he would watch 
the stake-drivers flying along the creek, with their 
long, ugly necks sticking out in front of them, and 
their long, ugly legs sticking out behind them, and 
their long, ugly wings sticking out on each side of 
them. They never seemed to have any bodies at 
all. People call them stake-drivers because their 
musical voices sound like the driving of a stake : 
" Ke-wack ! ke-wack ! " They also call them " Fly- 
up-the-creeks." and plenty of ugly names besides. 

i8 7 6.J 



It was one sleepy summer afternoon that Bobby 
sat on the root of a beech-tree, watching a stake- 
driver who stood in the water as if looking for his 
dinner of tadpoles, when what should the homely 
bird do but walk right out on the land and up to 
Bobby. Bobby then saw that it was not a stake- 
driver, but a long-legged, long-necked, short-bodied 
gentleman, in a black bob-tail coat. And yet his 
long, straight nose did look like a stake-driver's 
beak, to be sure. He was one of the stake-driver 
fairies, who live in the dark and lonesome places 
along the creeks in the Hoosier country. They 
make the noise that you hear, " Ke-whack ! ke- 
whack ! " It is the driving of stakes for the pro- 
tection of the nests of their friends the cat-fish. 

"Good-morning, Bobby, ke-whack!" said the 
long, slim gentleman, nodding his head. He said 
ke-whack after his words because that is the polite 
thing to do among the stake-driver fairies. 

" My name haint Bobby Ke-whack, nur nothin'," 

I answered Bobby. The people on Indian Kaintuck 
say "nor nothing" without meaning anything by 
it. " My name haint on'y jeth Bob, an' nothin' 


But the slender Mr. Fly-up-the-creek only nodded 
i and said ke-whack two or three times, by way of 
clearing his throat. 

"May be you 'd like to see the folks underground, 
! ke-whack," he added presently. "If you would, 

I I can show you the door and how to unlock it. It 's 
right under the next cliff, ke-whack! If you get 
'the door open, you may go in and find the Sleepy- 
headed People, the Invisible People, and all the 
rest, ke-whack ! " 

" Ke-whack ! " said Bob, mimicking, and grin- 
'ning till he showed his row of white milk-teeth. 

But the gentleman stake-driver must have been 
[offended, for he walked away into the water and 
['disappeared among the willows, saying, " Ke- 
I'whack ! ke-whack ! " in an indignant way at every 

When once the stake-driver fairy had gone, Bob 

vas troubled. He was lonesome. He had always 
^)een lonesome, because the family was so large. 

There is never any company for a body where 
j':here are so many. Now Bob wished that " Ole 
: Xe- whack," as he called him, had not walked off 
■ nto the willows in such a huff. He would like to 

iee who lived under the ground, you know. After 
'"iwhile, he thought he would go and look for the 
I'loor under the cliff. Bobby called it "clift," after 
!':he manner of the people on the Indian Kaintuck. 
1 Once under the cliff, he was a long time searching 
i 1 tround for a door. At last, he found a something 

hat looked like a door in the rock. He looked to 
f iee if there was a latch-string, for the houses in the 

.ndian Kaintuck are opened with latch-strings. 
VOL. III. — 13. 

But he could not find one. Then he said to him- 
self (for Bobby, being a lonesome boy, talked to 
himself a great deal) words like these: 

"Ole Ke-whack thed he knowed wharabout the 
key mout be. The time I went down to Madison, 
to market with mammy, I theed a feller dretht up 
to kill come along and open hith door with a iron 
thing. That mout be a key. Wonder ef I can 't 
find it mythelf! There, I come acrost the hole 
what it goeth into." 

He had no trouble in "coming acrost" the key 
itself, for he found it lying on the ground. He 
took it up, looked at it curiously, and said: " Thith 
thing muth be a key." So he tried to put it into 
the key-hole, but an unexpected difficulty met him. 
Every time he tried to put in the key, the key-hole, 
which before was in easy reach, ran up so far that 
he could not get to it. He picked up some loose 
stones and piled them up against the door, and 


stood on them on his tip-toes, but still the key-hole 
shot up out of his reach. At last, he got down 
exhausted, and sat down on the pile of stones he 
had made, with his back to the door. On looking 
round, he saw that the key-hole was back in its old 
place, and within a few inches of his head. He 
turned round suddenly and made a dive at it. with 
the key held in both hands, but the key-hole shot 
up like a rocket, until it was just out of his reach. 
After trying to trap this key-hole in every way 




he could, he sat down on a stone and looked at it 
a minute, and then said very slowly: "Well, I 
never ! That beats me all holler ! What a funny 
thing a key-hole muth be." 

At last, he noticed another key-hole in the rock, 
not far away, and concluded to try the key in that. 
The key went in without trouble, and Bob turned 
it round several times, until the iron key had turned 
to brass in his hands. 

"The blamed thing ith turnin' yaller ! " cried 
little Towpate. You must excuse Bob's language. 
You might have talked in the same way if you had 
been so lucky as to be born on the Indian Kain- 

Seeing that he could not open anything by turn- 
ing the key round in this key-hole, since there was 
no door here, he thought he would now try what 
luck he might have with the " yaller" key in open- 
ing the door. The key-hole might admit a brass 
key. But what was his amazement to find on try- 
ing, that the key-hole which had run upward from 
an iron key, now ran down toward the bottom of 
the door. He pulled away the stones and stooped 
down till his head was near the ground, but the 
key-hole disappeared off the bottom of the door. 
When he gave up the chase it returned as before. 
Bobby worked himself into a great heat trying to 
catch it, but it was of no use. 

Then he sat down again and stared at the door, 
and again he said slowly: "Well, I never, in all 
my born 'd days ! That beats me all holler ! What 
a thing a key-hole ith ! But that feller in town 
did n't have no trouble." 

After thinking awhile he looked at the key, and 
came to the conclusion that, as the key-hole went 
up from an iron key, and down from a brass one, 
that if he had one half-way between, he should 
have no trouble. " Thith key ith too awful yaller, " 
he said. "I'll put it back and turn it half-way 
black, and then we'll thee." 

So he stuck it into the key-hole and tried to turn 
it in the opposite direction to the way he had turned 
it before. But it would not turn to the left at all. 
So he let go and stood off looking at it awhile, 
when, to his surprise, the key began turning to the 
right of its own accord. And as it turned it grew 
whiter, until it was a key of pure silver. 

" Purty good for you, ole hoss," said Bob, as he 
pulled out the bright silver key. " We'll thee if 
you're any better 'n the black one and the yaller 

But neither would the silver one open the door ; 
for the key-hole was as much afraid of it as of the 
brass one and the iron one. Only now it neither 
went up nor down, but first toward one side of the 
door and then toward the other, according to the 
way in which the key approached it. Bobby, after 

awhile, went at it straight from the front, where- 
upon the key-hole divided into two parts — the one 
half running off the door to the right, the other to 
the left. 

"Well, that'th ahead of my time," said Bob. 
But he was by this time so much amused by the 
changes in the key and the antics of the nimble 
key-hole, that he did not care much whether the 
door opened or not. He waited until he had seen 
the truant key-hole take its place again, and then 
he took the silver key back to the other key-hole. 
As soon as he approached it the key leaped out of 
his hand, took its place in the key-hole, and began 
to turn swiftly round. When it stopped the silver 
had become gold. 

" Yaller again, by hokey," said Bob. And he 
took the gold key and went back, wondering what 


the key-hole would do now. But there was now 
no key-hole. It had disappeared entirely. 

Bob stood off and looked at the place where it 
had been, let his jaw drop a little in surprise and 
disappointment, and came out slowly with this: 
"Well, I never, in all my born 'd days ! " 

He thought best now to take the key back and 
have it changed once more. But the other key- 
hole was gone too. Not knowing what to do, he 
returned to the door and put the key up where 
the nimble key-hole had been, whereupon it re- 
appeared, the gold key inserted itself, and the door 
opened of its own accord. 

Bob eagerly tried to enter, but there stood some- 
body in the door, blocking the passage. 

" Hello ! " said Bob. " You here, Ole Ke-whack? 
How did you get in ? By the back door, I 'low." 



I8 7 

"Put my yellow waistcoat back where you got 
it, ke-whack ! " said the stake-driver, shivering. 
" It 's cokl in here, and how shall I go to the party 
without it, ke-whack ! " 

" Your yaller wescut? " said Bob. " I haint got 
no wescut, ke-whack or no ke-whack." 

"You must put that away ! " said the fly-up-the- 
creek, pecking his long nose at the gold key. " Ke- 
whack ! ke-whack ! " 

" Oh ! " said Towpate, "why did n't you say so ? " 
Then he tossed the gold key down on the ground, 
where he had found the iron one, but the key stood 
straight up, waving itself to and fro, while Bobby 
came out with his drawling : " Well, I never ! " 

" Pick it up ! Pick it up ! Ke-whack ! You 've 
pitched my yellow waistcoat into the dirt, ke-whack, 
ke-whack ! " 

" Oh ! You call that a wescut, do you. Well, I 
never ! " And Bobby picked up the key, and since 
he could think of no place else to put it, he put it 
into the key-hole, upon which it unwound itself to 
the left till it was silver. Bobby, seeing that the 
key had ceased to move, pulled it out and turned 
toward the open door to see the stake-driver wear- 
ing a yellow vest, which he was examining with 
care, saying, " Ke-whack, ke-whack," as he did so. 
" I knew you 'd get spots on it, ke-whack, throwing 
it on the ground that way." 

Poor Bobby was too much mystified by this con- 
fusion between the gold key and the yellow vest, or 
"wescut," as the/ call it on the Indian Kaintuck, 
to say anything. 

" Now, my white coat, put that back, ke-whack," 
said the fly-up-the-creek fairy. "I can't go to the 
party in my shirt sleeves, ke-whack." 

" I haint got your coat, Ole Daddy Longlegs," 
said Bobby, " 'less you mean this key." 

On this suspicion he put the key back, upon 
which it again unwound itself to the left and be- 
came brass. As soon as Bobby had pulled out the 
brass key and turned round, he saw that the fairy 
was clad in a white coat, which, with his stunning 
yellow vest, made him cut quite a figure. 
; "Now, my yellow cap," said the stake-driver, 
1 adding a cheerful ke-whack or two, and Bobby 
guessed that he was to put the brass key in the 
key-hole, whereupon it was immediately turned 
round by some unseen power until it became iron, 
and then thrown out on the ground where Bobby 
Towpate had found it at first. Sure enough, the 
fairy now wore a yellow cap, and, quick as thought, 
he stepped out to where the key was lying, and 
struck it twice with his nose, whereupon it changed 
to a pair of three-toed boots, which he quickly drew 
on. Then he turned and bowed to Bobby, and 

" Ke-whack ! You 've ironed my coat and vest, 

and brushed my cap and blacked my boots. Good- 
day, ke-whack, I 'm going to the party. You can 
go in if you want to." 

Bobby stood for some time, looking after him as 
he flew away along the creek, crying "ke-whack, 
ke-whack, ke-whack ! " And Bobby said once 
again: "Well, I never, in all my born 'd days," 
and then added, "Haint Daddy Longlegs peart? 
Thinks he's some in his yaller wescut, I 'low." 

When once the fly-up-the-creek had gone out of . 
sight and out of hearing, Bobby started on his 
search for the Sleepy-headed People. He traveled 
along a sort of underground gallery or cave, until 
he came to a round basin-like place. Here he 
found people who looked like fat little boys and 
girls, rather than men and women. They were 
lolling round in a ring, while one of the num- 
ber read drowsily from a big book which was lying 
on a bowlder in the middle of this Sleepy-hollow. 
All seemed to be looking and listening intently. 
But as soon as those who sat facing Bobby caught 
sight of him, they gave a long yawn and fell into a 
deep sleep. One after another they looked at him, 
and one after another the little round, lazy fellows 
gaped, until it seemed their heads would split open, 
then fell over and slept soundly, snoring like little 
pigs. Bobby stood still with astonishment. He 
did not even find breath to say, " Well, I never ! " 
For presently every one of the listeners had gone 
off to sleep. The reader, whose back was toward 
the new-comer, did not see him. He was the only 
one left awake, and Bobby looked to see him drop 
over at any moment. But the little fat man read 
right along in a drawling, sleepy mumble, some-. 
thing about the Athenians until Bob cried out: 
"Hello, Ole Puddin-bag, everybody 'th gone to 
thleep ; you 'd jeth ath well hole up yer rcadin' 

The little man rolled his eyes round upon Bob, 
and said : " Oh, my ! I 'm gone off again ! " And 
then he stretched his fat cheeks in an awful yawn. 

" Hey ! You '11 never get that mouth of your'n 
shet, ef you don't be mighty keerful," cried Bob; 
but the fellow was fast asleep before he could get 
the words out. 

" Well now, that 'th a purty lookin' crowd, haint 
it?" said Bob, looking round upon the sleepers. 

Just at that moment they began to wake up, one 
after another, but as soon as they saw Bob, they 
sighed and said: "He's so curious," or, "He's 
so interesting," or something of the sort, and fell 
away into a deep slumber again. At last, Bob un- 
dertook to wake some of them up by hallooing, but 
the more noise he made, the more soundly they 
slept. Then he gave over shaking them and shout- 
ing at them, and sat down. As soon as he was 
quiet, they began to wake up again. 

1 88 


I January, 

" Hello ! " cried Bob, when he saw two or three 
of them open their eyes. 

" If you 'd only keep still till I get awake," said 
one of them, and then they all went to sleep again. 

By keeping quite still, he got them pretty well 
waked up. Then they all fell to counting their 
toes, to keep from becoming too much interested 
in Bobby, for just so sure as they get interested or 
excited, the Sleepy-headed People fall asleep. 
Presently the reader awoke, and began to mumble 

''I know a better thtory than that air!" said 
Bobby, growing tired of the long, mumbling read- 
ing of the dull book. 

" Do you ? Tell it," said the reader. 

So Bobby began to tell them some of his advent- 
ures, upon which they all grew interested and fell 

''Don't tell any more like that," said the little 
reader, when he awoke. 

"What'th the matter weth it? Heap better 


a lot of stuff out of the big book, about Epaminon- 
das, and Sesostris, and Cyaxeres, and Clearchus, 
and the rest, and they all grew a little more wake- 
ful. When he came to an account of a battle, 
Bobby began to be interested a little in the story, 
but all the others yawned and cried out, "Read 
across, read across ! " and the reader straightway 
read clear across the page, mixing the two columns 
into hopeless nonsense, so as to destroy the interest. 
Then they all waked up again. 

thtory than that big book that you're a mumblin' 
over, Mr. Puddin'." 

" We don't like interesting stories," said the 
sleepy reader. "They put us to sleep. This is 
the best book in the world. It's Rollin's Ancient 
History, and it has n't got but a few interesting 
spots in the whole of it. Those we keep sewed up, 
so that we can't read them. The rest is all so nice 
and dull, that it keeps us awake all day." 

Bobby stared, but said nothing. 

l8 7 6.) 



'■' Can you sing ? " said one of the plump little old 

"Yeth, I can thing Dandy Jim." 

"Let's have it. I do love singing; it soothes me 
and keeps me awake." 

Thus entreated, little Bobby stood up and sang 
one verse of a negro song he had heard, which ran : 

"When de preacher took his tex' 
He look so berry much perplex', 
Fur nothin' come acrost his mine 
But Dandy Jim from Caroline ! " 

Bobby shut his eyes tight, and threw his head 
back and sang through his nose, as he had seen 
big folks do. He put the whole of his little soul 
into these impressive words. When he had finished 
and opened his eyes to discover what effect his 
vocal exertions had produced, his audience was of 
course fast asleep. 

"Well, I never," said Bob. 

"The tune's too awful lively," said the little old 
woman, when she woke up. "You ought to be 
ashamed of yourself. Now, hear me sing." And 
she began, in a slow, solemn movement, the most 
drawling tune you ever heard, and they all joined 
in the same fashion : 

" Poor old Pidy, 
She died last Friday ; 
Poor old creetur, 
The turkey-buzzards " 

But before they could finish the line, while they 
were yet hanging to the tails of the turkey-buzzards, 
so to speak, Bobby burst out with : 

"La! that'th the toon the old cow died on. I 
would n't thing that." 

" You would n't, hey ? " said the woman, getting 

"No, I would n't. little dumplin'." 

Whereupon the little woman got so mad that she 
went fast asleep, and the reader, growing interested 
and falling into a doze, tumbled off his chair on his 
head, but as his head was quite soft and puttyish, 
it did him no particular harm, except that the fall 
made him sleep more soundly than ever. 

When they had waked up again Bobby thought 
it time to move on, but as soon as he offered to 
move, the sleepy-heads surrounded him and began 
to sing a drawling song, which made Bobby sleepy. 
He soon found that they meant to make him one 
of themselves, and this was not at all to his taste. 
He struggled to get away, but something held him 
about the feet. What should he do ? 

Suddenly a bright thought came to his relief. 
The sleepy-heads were now all standing in a ring 
around him. He began to tell a story at the top 
of his voice : 

" My gr'an'pappy, he fit weth a red Injun. An' 

the Injun he chopped my gran'pappy's finger off 
weth his tomahawk, and " 

But at this point all the little people got intensely 
excited over Bobby's gran'pappy's fight, and so, of 
course, fell asleep and fell forward into a pile on 
top of Bobby, who had an awful time getting out 
from under the heap. Just as he emerged, the 
people began to wake up and to lay hold of his 
feet, but Bobby screamed out : 

"And my gran'pappy, he up weth his hatchet 
and he split the nasty ole red Injun's head open " 

They were all fast asleep again. 

Bobby now ran off toward the door, not caring 
to go any further underground at present, though 
he knew there were other wonders beyond. He 
reached the door at last, but it was closed. There 
was no key-hole even. 

After looking around a long time he found the 
Fly-up-the-creek fairy, not far from the door, sitting 
by a fire, with a large, old owl sitting over against 

" Give me the key to the door, Ole Ke-whack ! " 
said Bobby. 

"Oh, no! I will not give you my clothes, ke- 
whack ! Do you think I would give you my party 
clothes ? If you had n't sung so loud, the door 
would n't have shut. You scared it. Now, I can't 
give you my fine clothes, and so you '11 have to stay 

Poor Bobby sat down by the fire, not knowing 
what to do. 

"Tell him about the Sleepy-headed People," 
said the owl to Bobby, solemnly. 

" Shut up, old man, or I '11 bite your head off! " 
said the Fly-up-the creek to the owl. 

" Do as I say," said the owl. " If you stay here, 
you '11 turn to an owl or a bat. Be quick. The 
Sleepy-heads are his cousins — he does n't like to 
hear about them." 

' ' Don't mind a word the old man says, ke- 
whack ! " 

" Give me the key, then," said Bobby. 

" Do as I say," said the owl. 

The Fly-up-the-creek tried to bite off the owl's 
head, but the "old man" hopped out of his way. 
Bobby began to tell the story of his adventures 
among the Sleepy-heads, and the stake-driver 
began to cry, "Ke-whack, ke-whack!" to drown 
his words, but as Bobby went on, the stake-driver's 
voice became weaker and weaker. Bobby was so 
amazed that he stopped. 

"Go on ! " cried the owl, "or you'll never get 
out, or I either." 

So Bobby kept up his talk until the stake-driver 
was lying senseless on the floor. 

" Put the key in the lock, quick," cried the owl. 

" Where is the kev ? " 




" His fine clothes. Take them off, quick ! Cap 
first ! " 

Bobby began with the cap, then stripped off the 
coat and vest and boots. 

" Put them in the key-hole, quick ! " said the 
owl, for the stake-driver was reviving. 

" Where is the key-hole? " 

" There ! There ! " cried the owl, pointing to 
the fire. By. this time the Fly-up-the-creek had 
already begun to reach out for his clothes, which 
Bobby hastily threw into the fire. The fire went 
out, the great door near by swung open, and the 

big-eyed owl, followed by Bobby, walked out, say- 
ing, " I 'm free at last." 

Somehow, in the day-light, he was not any longer 
an owl, but an old man in gray clothes, who hob- 
bled off down the road. 

And Bobby looked after him until he saw the 
stake-driver, shorn of his fine clothes, sweep over 
his head and go flying up the creek again. Then 
he turned toward his father's cabin, saying : 

'•Well, I never! Ef that haint the beatinest 
thing I ever did see in all my born'd days." 

And 1 think it was. 


By J. T. Trowbridge. 

The sea was inspiring to Mr. Augustus Bonwig's 
poetical feelings; and he began to declaim again, 
as he and Joe descended the ledges on the seaward 
side of the island. 

"'The breaking waves dashed high, on a 
stern — ' " But here a chasm in the rocks occa- 
sioned a hiatus in the verse. 

"On the stern of a ship? " Joe asked. 

" No ; ' on a stern and rock-bound coast,' " said 
Mr. Bonwig, as he stepped over the chasm. 

But here, again, he was interrupted ; this time 
by Joe, who cautioned him against scaring the 
ducks with his poetry. 

"Now, look a here. Mister! You notice, we're 
comin' to a sort of clift " (Joe meant cliff). " We 
can crawl right to the edge on 't, and look right 

down into a little inlet, where we'll be purty sure 
to see suthin'." 

"Crawl, is it?" said the portly Mr. Bonwig, 
wincing. " I'm not built for crawling. But no 
matter. Go ahead. I '11 sacrifice the rest of my 
buttons in a good cause, if necessary." 

Joe advanced to make an observation. He 
reached the edge of the cliff; and presently looked 
back at his companion with a laugh, and beckoned 
to him. Augustus came up with him, scratching 
the rocks with his remaining buttons, and looked 

" Here's a splendid shot ! " said Joe. '* Two old 
wives close in shore ! " 

Bonwig saw with delight the pair of ducks, riding 
on the swells that poured into the inlet, or tipping 

.8 7 6.) 




up and plunging their bills down among the cool, 
darlc sea-moss, as the bright waves receded, leaving 
it half exposed and glistening in the early sunlight. 

" Now," said Joe, " I 'm goin' to let you have all 
the chance this time. I sha' n't fire at all, till you 
do. Don't show yourself, nor make a noise, but 
take aim right through this notch." 

Bonwig obeyed ; resting his ponderous stomach 
on the ledge, and thrusting his gun over it, he 
cocked both barrels, and took as deliberate aim as 
it was possible for a highly nervous sportsman to 
do, under the circumstances. 

"Plenty of time," said Joe. 

" I — know — it ; but, bless my heart ! how they 
do — bob up and down ! " 

The ducks were, in fact, constantly in motion, 
tossing on the swells, or tipping up and darting 
their bills hither and thither. Moreover, the light 
on the water was very deceptive. One has to get 
used to shooting at objects afloat, as Joe very justly 
observed afterward. 

" I — I — rather think I 'd better fire ! " said Au- 
gustus, in a trembling voice. 

" Seems to me, I would ; I don't see what you're 
waitin' for," Joe replied. 

Mr. Bonwig fired both barrels in quick succes- 
sion. The startled ducks rose quickly and quietly 
from the water, as if to show a due respect for his 
salute; not a feather of either being injured. 

" Bless my heart ! " said Mr. Bonwig. 

"You've had your chance ; now it 's my turn,"' 
said Joe. 

He took aim with his old " Queen's arm," fired 
instantly, and brought down a bird. Then he fired 
his other gun, and the other duck whirled and fell 
into the sea. 

" Now, I am — I am surprised ! " said Augustus. 
"It's all a knack, as your father said; and you 
have got the knack ! I am surprised ! " 

"I '11 go down after 'em," said Joe, " while you 
go back and see if there aint some more ducks over 
t' other side, by this time. And haul the dory a 
little further up on the beach," he added, "for I'm 
afraid the tide will git it ; it 's comin' in fast." 

Bonwig went, and returned in a short time, say- 
ing that he had left the dory safe, and that he had 
seen no game. 

"Where are your old wives?" he asked. 
" Have n't you been down after them yet ? " 

"No," said Joe; "I'm watchin' them loons," 
pointing out to sea. " If you '11 do jest what I tell 
ye, I guess we can git 'em. Sure ye left the dory 
all right ? " 

" Oh, yes ! The tide wont reach it this hour. 
I don't see your loons, though," said Augustus. 
" Yes, I do ! Half a mile off ! How do you expect 
ever to get them ? " 

"I'll git down on to that ledge that runs out 
into the water, and hide. Then I '11 holler like a 
loon, and purty soon you '11 see 'em steerin' right 
in toward me. But if they come near enough to 
find out I aint a loon, they '11 stop. So, soon as 
you see 'em comin', you jest wave this 'ere hanker- 
cher on yer ramrod, so 's to take their eye. I carry 
it 'most a purpose for loons." joe pulled a flam- 
ing bandanna from his pocket, and showed Mr. 
Bonwig how to manage it. " Loons is birds," he 
said, " that has lots of curiosity in their dispositions, 
and they '11 'most gener'lly alius come in nigh 
enough to sec what a wavin' red hankercher means, 
so's't a feller can git a shot at 'em. Only," said 
Joe, eying his friend's gun wistfully. " it 's hard 
carryin' two long, heavy guns down a steep clift, 
like this here ; and now, if you don't care to go 
down and do the shootin' — for you '11 be too fur off 
up here — " 

" Bless my heart ! " said Augustus, looking over 
the precipice, " I never could get down these rocks 
alive, in the world ! I — I — must think of my wife 
and children ! " 

" Then if you would jest lend me the loan of 
your gun once," said Joe. 

" Why yes — certainly," said Augustus. 

'•Then you wont be shootin' me, ye know," 
grinned Joe. 

Leaving his companion on the top of the cliff, 
he dropped over the edge of it, and, taking advan- 
tage of the loons diving, slipped down from crevice 
to crevice, and from shelf to shelf, until he had 
made his way in safety to the bottom, and con- 
cealed himself on the point of rock he h;.d men- 
tioned. Then he began to halloo like a loon, with 
his hands behind his mouth to throw his voice ou\ 
to sea — uttering a wild, lonesome cry, which soon 
attracted the birds' attention. They ceased theii 
diving, and presently began to swim toward him. 

Bonwig now waved the handkerchief on the cliff, 
remaining himself unseen ; and the loons, tackinf 
and turning occasionally, and rising and falling on 
the swells, continued to approach the shore, ever. 
after Joe had stopped calling. 

Nearer and nearer they came, until Augustus 
grew impatient. "Why don't he fire? Why 
don't the fellow fire?" he kept saying to himself. 
But Joe knew what he was about. Aware of the 
difficulty of penetrating the loons' breast-feathers 
with bird-shot, he wished to get them as near as 
possible, and close together, or their two heads in 
range, in order to double his chances. At last, 
just as one was darting by the other on the top of 
a wave, he fired one of Bonsvig's barrels. The 
nearest bird immediately went over on his side, 
and began to flop and turn on the water in a way 
that showed he had got a fatal hurt. His mate 




was less severely wounded. She tried to dive, but 
could not remain beneath the surface, and a second 
shot dispatched her. 

Then Joe climbed back up the rock. 

" Why don't you get the old wives?" Augustus 
called to him. " They 're tossing about in the cove 

" We must bring the dory around to pick up the 
loons, anyhow," said Joe, handing the gun over the 
edge of the cliff, "and we can get the old wives 

"Why didn't you shoot sooner?" Mr. Bonwig 

"Don't you see?" said Joe. " If I hadn't 
wounded 'em both at once, soon as I fired at one, 
t' other 'd have dove quick as wink, and most likely 
I should n't have got another shot at her. They 're 
a terrible quick bird ! They '11 dodge the flash of 
a gun, without you 're perty near 'em." 

' ' Well, well ! you have got the knack, I declare ! " 
said Mr. Bonwig. " I don't know but I shall have 
to give in to you, after all ! " 

"This is a splendid gun of yourn ! " said Joe, 
covetously. " If I could only have this with me 
alluz, then I miglit do suthin' ! But I must go for 
the dory now. You stay here and watch the loons, 
and perty soon you '11 see me come rowin' around 
the island." 

"Now, why can't I shoot like that boy ?" Bon- 
wig said to himself after Joe had gone. " In the 
city, he was so green everybody laughed at him. 
But, bless my heart ! if I don't find him my supe- 
rior down here ! I 'm afraid, if anybody deserves 
to be laughed at to-day, he is n't the fellow, any- 
way ! " 

Mr. Augustus was beginning to be sick of duck- 

Hearing a cry in the direction Joe had gone, Mr. 
Bonwig arose and listened. Another cry. full of 
anger and distress. Augustus started to find his 
young friend, whom he presently saw hurrying 
back to meet him. 

" You critter, you !" shrieked Joe, forgetting all 
deference due to his companion in the rage and 
perplexity of the moment; "you old fat fool, 
you ! " 

"Bless my heart!" said Augustus, aghast, 
" what 's the matter?" 

"Matter, you lazy lummox! don't you know 
nothin'?" And Joe turned back again with gest- 
ures of fury and despair. 

" Why ! what on earth have I done ? " cried Mr. 
Bonwig, following him, more alarmed than angry. 

" The dory ! " said Joe, chokingly. 

"Hey? what's happened to the dory?" said 
Bonwig, turning pale. " I left it safe ! " 

"You did n't ! You said you 'd haul it up out 

of reach of the tide, and you never touched it ! 
Now look a there ! " 

They had reached a commanding point of the 
island, from which Augustus had the satisfaction 
of seeing the little skiff afloat, and drifting quietly 
and steadily out to sea. 

" Bless my ! " gasped the astounded candy- 
maker. " Can't ye swim and get it?" 

"Swim?" echoed Joe, with wrathful contempt. 
"I 'd like to see any man swim for that! The 
wind has got into the north-west, and it 's carryin' 
on her away faster 'n anybody can swim ! Why 
did n't ye haul her up, as I told ye?" 

" I — really — I could n't see any necessity for it !" 
said poor Mr. Bonwig. " The waves did n't touch 

"But I told you the tide was comin' in ! And 
could n't you see yourself that once in a while there 
was a big swell, bigger 'n the rest ! 'Twas one o' 
them that started her off, and then the wind took 

"I am surprised!" said the pale Mr. Bonwig. 
"I don't see how we are going to get off this 
island ! And I — I promised my wife — she '11 cer- 
tainly be looking for me to-night. I must get back 
to-night ! " 

" If you do, you '11 have to swim." And Joe sat 
down sulkily on the ledge and watched the depart- 
ing dory. 

" What ! you don't mean ? " 

"You'll have enough of Robinson Crusoe 'fore 
you get through ! That dory cost my father fifteen 
dollars ! " 

"It aint possible we shall have to stay here," 
faltered Augustus, casting his eyes about him, 
and feeling not a bit like spouting poetry just then, 
" and live on what we kill ? " 

"A feller couldn't live very long on what you 
kill ! " said Joe. " I don't care for sleepin' in the 
hut, I 'd jest as lieve do that as not; and I can eat 
fish and wild ducks and hard bread as long as the 
next chap. But, by sixty ! that dory ! Dad '11 
skin me alive if I don't bring her back. See her 
go ! see her go ! " And Joe whipped his legs with 

his hands despairingly, 
too ! " with a fresh wail. 

' The coots are in her, 
"And we can't get the 

loons without her ; and mabby we can't get the 
old wives now." 

"Then if no more ducks come around, what 
shall we do?" said Augustus, who was a man of 
excellent appetite, never careless about his dinner. 

" I guess you '11 have a chance to grow a little 
mite less pussy 'n you be now," said Joe, beginning 
to see the humor of the situation, and to get the 
better of his despair. 

" Can't we make a signal of distress? " 

" You can try it, if you want to. But dad is 

i8 7 6.] 



huskin' corn to-day ; and even if he should see it, 
he 'd think it was for loons. Besides, there aint 
another dory to the Cove, since Old Wansey's got 
stove up by the last gale ; and dad could n't come 
off for us if he wanted to." 

"Then," said Augustus, "I don't see but that 
we are in a fix ! " 

"Jes'so," said Joe. "But now, if you want to 
make a signal, I '11 show you. It must be on the 
highest spot, where it can be seen from shore, as 
well as by fishin' boats outside." 

can my coat, in this wind," said Joe ; and he pro- 
ceeded to divest himself of that useful, but not in- 
dispensable garment. 

He thrust a gun-barrel into one of the sleeves at 
the wrist, and thence through the shoulders of the 
shirt into the other sleeve, which he tied into a 
knot over the muzzle. 

"Now, there's your banner!" said he, waving 
it aloft. 

"Well, I declare!" said Augustus, "you've 
done it ! Long may it wave!" as Joe flourished 



The thought of something to be done put Joe 
into a good humor. 

" Here's where you was monarch of all you sur- 
veyed," he said, with a grin, as they walked over 
the ledges; adding, " I guess the deep and dark 
blue ocean will roll on fast enough for you now, 
without waitin' to be told ! Here 's the place ! " 

" We never can make ourselves seen from this 
distance," said Bonwig, with a heavy heart. 

" We can try." 

" But what can we make a signal of? A hand- 
kerchief is nothing ! " 

" Take my shirt, — I can spare that better than I 

the pale ensign in the breeze. " Though there 's a 
prospect of its waving long enough, without rush- 
ing it particularly. But, as a signal of distress, it 
seems to me there 's something not quite right. 
Don't they usually have the union down?" 

" Shirts ha' n't got no union," said Joe. And 
he began to sing: iL 'Tis the star-spangled banner," 
in a cheerful and enlivening manner. 

Being one of those brave-hearted lads whose 
spirits always rise in the presence of danger and 
difficulty, and having recovered from the chagrin 
of losing the dory, he was now in a merrier mood 
than he had been at anv time that morning. 

i 9 4 



" It wont take long for this wind to whip a shirt 
into ravelin's!" said he. "After it has flopped 
mine all to pieces, then we '11 take your'n. Then, 
when that 's gone, we '11 run up our jackets, and 
then our trouse's, for we 're bound to keep the sig- 
nal flyin' ! " 

Mr. Bonwig could not see the fun of the thing, 
but kept a dismal countenance, thinking of his wife 
and children. 

" You need n't be so anxious about suthin' to 
eat," remarked Joe. " It '11 take you a good while 
longer to starve than it would most people. My 
uncle was in a ship that was lost once, and was 
three weeks on a raft in the Pacific Ocean, with 
seven other men, and he said three of the men 
died, and all the rest come within one of it ; only 
there was a fat man with 'em, — weighed about two 
hundred and fifty when they took to the raft, — he 
stood it ; he kept growing lighter an' lighter, and 
fresher and fresher ; he weighed about a hundred, 
and was spry as a cricket when a vessel finally 
picked 'em up. He had lived all the while on his 
own fat; like a bear in winter." 

This pleasant anecdote did not seem to afford 
Mr. Bonwig very much comfort. The idea of liv- 
ing on his fat for any length of time was not 
cheering. He had no doubt whatever of growing 
lighter and lighter on that diet ; but as for growing 
fresher and fresher, that did not appear to him to 
be among the probabilities. No, — Mr. Augustus 
Bonwig could not indulge a hope of ever becoming 
spry as a cricket, in that way. 

" Your father must grow anxious about you, if 
you don't come home ; and he can find a dory 
somewhere," said he. 

' ' My father never 's anxious about me when 
I 'm off duck-shootin'," replied Joe. " Once I got 
lost in a fog, rowin' from Pippin P'int. I got 
turned about somehow. I kept rowin' and rowin', 
but could n't find no land ; and night come on, 
dark as Egypt — and there I was ! No supper, no 
■north star, no compass, no overcoat, — discouragin', 
I tell you ! I rowed all night, to keep warm, and 
in hopes of touchin' land somewheres ; — and it 
was n't half so comf'table as we '11 find it in that 
house to-night, burnin' the Humane Society's wood 
and eatin' the Humane Society's crackers, and 
tellin' stories, — not half! Wal, mornin' come, but 

the fog did n't lift, and I did n't know where I was 
any more 'n I did before ; but I kept on rowin' and 
rowin', only when I stopped to rest, which was 
perty often now, — I was gittin' used up. No sup- 
per, and no breakfast ! The sea was calm ; the 
fog was so heavy it seemed to press it right down 
flat. I could n't see more 'n an oar's length or two 
ahead of me. So the forenoon wore on. By-m-by 
I give up, — no supper, no breakfast, no dinner, — 
it was beginnin' to tell on me. You 've no idee 
hew a feller '11 shrink, without eatin' or sleepin' for 
twenty-four hours ! It seemed to me I 'd got dad's 
clo'es on. I 'd hollered myself hoarse ; but in that 
fog, it was like a man's hollerin' in his grave. You 
need n't look so sorry ; why," said Joe, " this here 
island, in fine weather, is paradise to an open boat 
in a fog !" 

"How did you finally get ashore?" asked 

" Wind changed, and fog lifted all of a sudden, 
jest afore sundown. And where do ye s'pose I 
was ? Almost within gunshot o' the Cove ! I jest 
rowed ashore, hauled up the dory, and walked into 
the house. There sot dad, a-smokin', comfortable 
as could be. ' Where 's yer ducks, boy ? ' says he 
the fust thing. ' Did n't git none,' says I. ' Why, 
where ye been all this time ? ' says he ; ' and ha'nt 
got nary duck ! ' ' O, paddlin' round in the fog,' 
says I. ' A'nt ye hungry ? ' says my mother, — she 
was gittin' supper. ' Wal, I be some hungry,' 
says I. And supper did taste mighty good that 
night, I tell ye ! " 

"Wasn't your family concerned about you?" 
said Mr. Bonwig. 

" What was the use of bein' consarned ? There 
was no gale ; and they knowed I 'd come home 
agin some time," said Joe. " I did come home, and 
I brought the dory. Dad '11 be dreadful worked, 
if I don't bring it this time ! Look ! it 's most out 
of sight ! " 

" That seems to be all you care about ! " 

" Why should n't it be ? We '11 do well enough. 
It wont be many days before somebody '11 be comin' 
off here a-fishin', and see us." 

" Many days ! " groaned Augustus. " I 'm get- 
ting hungry already ! " 

" Wal," said Joe, " you keep the flag a-wavin', 
and I '11 go and see what I can do for dinner." 

(Concluded in next number.) 

■8 7 6.| 




By Abby Morton Diaz. 

" MOTHER, do butterflies remember when they 
were worms and caterpillars ? " inquired Natty. 

" What puzzling questions you children do ask ! " 
said his mother. "The idea never entered my 
head. You must ask your uncle Joe." 

"Uncle Joe," asked Natty, again, "do butter- 
flies remember when they were worms and cater- 
pillars ? " 

"Why, no," said Uncle Joe. " I should say not, 
if all stories are true." 

"What stories?" 

"I happened to be reading one the other day 
which — but stay, just hand me that book, please ; 
the thin, square, prettily bound one. That 's it. 
Now we '11 look for the story. I forget the name. 
Ah, here we have it. It 's not a long story. Read- 
ing it will hardly take ten minutes. Listen." 

A poor little worm was one day crawling slowly 
along the ground, seeking for food, while above 
her happy insects darted through the air, their 
bright wings flashing in the sunlight. 

"Alas!" sighed the little worm. "What a 
toilsome life is ours ! We move only by great labor, 
and even with that can never travel far. Kept 
near the damp ground, liable at any moment to be 
crushed, toiling up and down rough stalks, eating 
tough leaves — for it is only now and then we find a 
flower. Oh, it is truly a wearisome life. 

"Yet none seem to pity our sorrows. Those 
proud insects flitting over head, the miller, the 
butterfly, the dragon-fly, the golden bumble-bee, 
they never notice us ! Oh, but life goes well with 
them ! Flying is so easy ! Even easier than rest. 
Wherever they wish to be, they have only to spread 
their wings and the summer wind bears them on. 
Dressed out so gayly, at home with all the flowers, 
living on sweets, seeing tine sights, hearing all that 
is to be heard, what care they for us poor plodders? 
Selfish creatures ! 1 hey think only of themselves. 
Now, for my part, if I had wings and could move 
about so easily, I would think, sometimes, of the 
poor worms down below, who could not fly. I 
would bring them, now and then, a sip of honey, 
or a taste of something nice from the flower gar- 
dens, far away. 1 would come down and speak a, 
kind word, tell them something good to hear — in 
short, be friendly. Oh, if one only had wings, how 
much good one might do. But these selfish crea- 
:ures never think of that ! " 

Not long afterward this complaining worm 
ivas changed into a butterfly. Spreading her light 

wings, she passed the happy hours in flitting from 
field to fiekl, rocking in the flower-cups, idling 
about where the sunshine was brightest, sipping 
where the honey was sweetest. Oh, a right gay 
butterfly was she, and no summer day ever seemed 
too long ! 

One morning, while resting upon an opening rose- 
bud, she saw below her a couple of worms, making 
their slow way over the ground. 

"Poor creatures !" she said. "Life goes hard 
with them. Dull things, how little they know ! It 
must be stupid enough down there. No doubt 
their lives could be brightened up a trifle. Some 
few pleasures or comforts might be given them, and 
I hope this will be done. If I were not so busy — 
but really I have n't a moment to spare. To-day 
there is a rose party, and all the butterflies are 
going there. To-morrow the sweet-pea party comes 
off, and all the butterflies are going there. Next 
day the grasshoppers give a grand hop, and at sun- 
down there will be a serenade by the crickets. Every 
hour is occupied. The bumble-bees and hornets 
are getting up a concert. Then there is a new 
flower blossoming in a garden far away, and all are 
flying to see it. The two rich butterflies, Lady 
Golden Spot, and Madame Royal Purple, have ar- 
rived in great state, and expect great attentions. 
The bees have had a lucky summer, and, in honor 
of these new arrivals, are to give a grand honey 
festival, at which the queen herself will preside. 
The wasps are on the police, and will, I trust, keep 
out the vulgar. The gnats and mosquitoes have 
formed a military company, called the flying militia, 
and will serve, if needed. It is to be hoped that 
no low creatures, like the two creeping along below, 
will intrude themselves. Poor things ! If I had 
the time, I really would try to do something for 
them, but every sunny day is taken up, and stirring 
out in the wet is not to be thought of. 

"Besides, one meets with so much that is not 
pleasant in mixing with low people ! Their homes 
are not always cleanly. I might soil my wings. 
And if once taken notice of, they will always ex- 
pect it. Why make them dissatisfied ? They are 
well enough off, as they are. Perhaps, after all, it 
is my duty not to meddle with them. In fact, I 
have no doubt of it. 

" Here comes Miss Gossamer ! Welcome, Miss 
Gossamer ! All ready for the rose party ? How 
sweetly you look ! Wait one moment till I have 
washed my face in this dew-drop. The sun has 




nearly dried it up while I have been pitying those 
mean worms below there. Folly, I know, to thus 
waste the time. But my feelings are so tender ! I 
actually thought of calling ! What would Lady 
Golden Spot think, or Madame Royal Purple ! 

Have you seen them pass ? They are sure to be 
there. Do you suppose they will take notice of 
us ? If they don't, I shall be perfectly wretched. 
Come, dear Miss Gossamer, one more sip, and 
then away ! " 


By D. F. H. 


^T 5 " NLY two days before New Year's ! 
It should be a happy time for me ; 
but when I think of all the good 
resolutions made this time last 
year, and so few of them kept, I 
can only feel sorry, and think I 
have wasted much precious time. 
One resolution was to help the 
poor, not only with kind words, 
but with substantial acts of boun- 
ty. And how little I have really 
done ! 

All this I thought, sitting in my 
easy-chair, before one of the most 
cheerful and comfortable of fires 
— an open grate, the coals all red hot. I had been 
very busy all day, but was only waiting for the 
sleigh, to go out and finish some holiday shopping. 
I had written for some little children to come and 
spend a week with me at this time, and had asked 
my "aunt also to make one of the party, knowing 
how delighted the children would be to find her 
here to meet them, for she is an especial favorite 
of the little ones. The chair and the fire were both 
so luxurious, the heat of the room so delightful, and 
the cold wind and the snow both so uninviting, that 
I hesitated about venturing out. But, then, the 
toys and the last things — that lovely doll for Addie, 
that little set of doll's jewelry for little Effie, and 
quantities of other things — all must be bought. 
Then some good warm clothing for poor Mrs. 
Rooney, with her five children. 

" If you please, ma'am, the sleigh is at the door." 
My wrappings were on in a moment, and I was soon 
gliding along, wrapped up well in the warm robes, 
and listening to the merry bells, jingling as we hur- 
ried along. 

As we were driving through one of the poorer 
parts of the town, John the coachman said to me : 
" You told me, ma'am, to let you know of any very 

poor people I might hear of. There is a poor 
woman they told me about to-day, and if you wish- 
to see her, I know where she lives — not far from 

I was hurried, having put off going out until 
late in the day ; but here was a chance of doing a 
little good during this blessed holiday-time; sol 
asked John to drive to the woman's house. 

How busy every one seemed to be ! So many 
happy-looking people, all eager about something, 
which I could not help thinking was shopping. As 
we drove along, we passed groups of happy chil- 
dren, and, thank Heaven ! I saw very few who 
looked poor. We were leaving the better class of 
even poor-looking houses, and at last came to a 
miserable-looking street or alley — for John could 
not drive near the door of the house he pointed out 
to me as the one I was looking for. 

I should not have said house — that implies com- 
fort, or at least shelter. The shanty — for it was 
nothing more — seemed almost to be tumbling 
down. It had a really ragged appearance. The 
window was very small, and several panes were 
out ; and in these places were bits of old cloth, 
paper, or anything that could be found to keep out 
some of the bitterly cold wind. 

I knocked, and hardly heard the feeble "Come 
in." My heart sank at what I saw. A poor wo- 
man, looking like the house — ragged — sitting on a 
broken stool before an old stove. Poor thing ! I 
suppose she thought there was a little heat there ; 
but indeed, when I went near it, I could not feel 
the least. She was leaning over, her elbows on 
her knees, and her head in her hands ; and when 
she looked up at me, I saw she had been crying. 
There seemed to be nothing in the room but the 
woman, the stove, an old broken chair, the stool 
upon which she sat, and a bed in the corner. She 
did not speak, and I hardly knew what to say ; 
but at last I told her I had heard she was in need, 

i8 7 6.] 



and I came to do anything I could for her. Her 
looks of gratitude I can never forget. 

"You needn't think of me — only do something, 
if you can, for Tom ; that 's all I ask." 

" For Tom," I said — " your husband ? " 

" No, ma'am — my boy there, in bed." 

I went to the corner where the bed was, and 
there saw this sad sight : A little boy, about seven 
or eight years old, was lying there, asleep ; but 
such a look of suffering in his poor white face — I 
could hardly look at him. 

" What is the matter ? Is he ill ? " I asked. 

" Yes, ma'am, he is ill — he has a fever ; but 
that is not the worst — he is lame. His father died 
when Tom was a little baby. I did very well for a 
time. I took in sewing, and some ladies were very 
kind to me. But at last one day, when Tom was 
six years old, playing with some rough boys, he 
was thrown down, and his hip put out of place. 
They brought him to me helpless, and so he has 
been ever since. I had a little money, which kept us 
I for a few months from want. A doctor, who came, 
sent by one of the ladies who had helped me, did 
all he could for him, but at last he told me Tom 
could not be cured. God forgive me ! but I could 
not help thinking, if I could only pay him well, 
he might have done something for him." 

Here was a most pitiful state of things. The 
poor woman went on to tell me that she was com- 
pletely discouraged. She had tried everything. 
She could not leave the poor boy for any length 
; of time, so could not go out by the day to work. 
And now she was utterly without food or work, 
, and almost in despair. 

What should I do first ? Where so much was 

1 to be done, what was the most important thing to 

1 do? " We must have a fire at once." So giving 

her a little money. I told her to go and get some 

, wood, promising to sit by Tom until she returned. 

I placed the stool by his bed, and the woman went 

r out. My mind seemed almost paralyzed. I looked 

■j at the poor little face before me, so wan and worn, 

in all the rags and dirt (for everything was dirty, 

but I could not blame the woman). He looked as 

though he really was a pretty child. 

I was thinking very intently, when all at once a 

light seemed to fill the room. I turned toward the 

door, expecting to see the mother returning, but 

■ the door was not open — only it seemed there was 

no need of its being open ; for coming through it, 

, there were quantities of the tiniest people I ever 

saw. And how bus)' they all were ! They did not 
seem to glance at me : they were tugging some- 
thing in with which they were having a great deal 
of trouble. 

What can it be ? A stove ! In a moment the 
old one is gone, and a nice new one in its place. 
The window is mended, and the glass looks new 
and clean. The floor is mopped, and actually 
looks white ; and yet I saw no mopping, only I 
know it has been done. Chairs are placed about 
the room, a good table by the window, and, most 
wonderful of all, without waking Tom, a sweet 
clean bed is in the corner, instead of the old one, 
and he is clean and sweet too ; and his sleep seems 
very happy, for he is smiling. 

What pretty little creatures these are ! Bless 
me ! /am on a new chair — how in the world could 
they have done that ? What are they doing now ? 
They are at a dresser — putting cups and saucers, 
plates, and other dishes in their places. They 
have forgotten nothing — not even a wood-box be- 
hind the door, filled with wood. They are cer- 
tainly most thorough housekeepers. What will 
the poor woman think when she comes back? She 
has been away a long time. How much they have 
done (I knew them by this time to be fairies), while 
I have been sitting thinking what I should do ! 

Tom is waking. He looks at me with large blue 
eyes, and does not seem to wonder at the change 
around him, or at me, a stranger, sitting by him. 
Here is his mother. Before I can speak to him, 
she is opening the door. Why does she not 
come in ? 

" Ma'am, the sleigh is ready." 

What ! Why ! Where is Tom ? And where 
am I ? 

In my easy-chair, by my comfortable fire, and 
have'had this dream — nothing more than a dream. 
This time the sleigh is really waiting for me, and 
I do go to get the toys and presents for the chil- 

And now, my little friends who read this, I must 
tell you, my dream did some good ; for that very 
day, I did find out some very poor people, who 
needed a helping hand very much, and whose 
New Year's day I could make happy, by making 
them comfortable, and showing them they were 
thought of, and that their Father in Heaven had 
touched human hearts in their behalf, and that the 
fresh year would not be without hope and good 






Christmas is coming — and then, a brand-new 
year ! Now a year is the greatest, most beautiful, 
most wonderful of Christmas presents, my darlings, 
and you 're each to have one — a brand-new year! 
think of it. Soon it will lie fresh, white and shining 
before you, not a dark spot upon it — not a wrong 
thought, not a harsh word, nor a neglected duty. 
It seems to me that the best way to thank God for 
such a present as that is to take good care of it and 
keep it fair and shining to its very last moment. 

But I 'm only Jack-in-the-pulpit, so I '11 just give 
my love to you all, and talk about 


" Dear Jack," writes a little maid, who signs 
herself " Riderhood," " may I tell what I am almost 
sure happened last Summer?" 

" Certainly you may," answers your Jack. 

But the little maid, without waiting to hear this 
gracious permission, goes on : 

The roses in the pretty schoolmistress's garden blushed deeply at 
their own insignificance; the violets, sorrowing, hung their heads; 
and the snow-white lilies trembled with despair on the day the gar- 
dener sowed the new seed with the big names. 

"Oh, dear, dear!" said the rose, "the gentle schoolmistress will 
not care for us plain, old-fashioned flowers any more, after the agros- 
temma coeli-rosea and the mitabilis jalapa bloom " 

"The gardener often writes their names with capitals, while he 
begins mine with a little /," said the lily. 

" He might at least Frenchify yours with an it:" replied the wall- 
flower: "but I suppose we must just be prepared to accept the un- 
enviable position of neglected flowers; no doubt we shall henceforth 
'waste our sweetness on the desert air.' " 

But Summer came, and with it the blossoms of the fearfully and 
wonderfully named agrostemma coeli-rosea and the mirabilis jalapa 

And when the schoolmistress walked in the garden, she said ; 

"These weeds are so troublesome; I will pull them up, so that 
my dear violets may have more room to grow," and she threw the 
agrostemma coeli-rosea supcrbum over tbe fence ! 

Next she saw the mirabilis jalapa grandiflora in full bloom. 

"Dear me," she exclaimed, " I wonder what Hans planted more 
four o'clocks for! I had plenty in tbe back part of the garden al- 
ready. But they are sweet, old-fashioned flowers, and 1 will let them 

grow here, if they don't overrun my jewels — the roses, lilies, violets 
and the dear old wall-flowers." 

Then the rose smiled, and the wall-flower sent forth its sweetest 
fragrance, the violet peeped out shyly from its green leaves, and the 
snow-white lily shone like silver in the setting sun. 


You never heard of such a thing ? Why, I '11 
warrant you 've alluded to it often and often, without 
knowing it. Didn't you ever speak of such or 
such a matter coming, going, or happening just in 
" the nick of time?" Very well. The little School- 
ma'am says that nick comes from the German word 
Nicken, to nod or wink. So the nick of time, is 
the wink of time, or my name is not Jack. 


TALKING of words, and what the little School- 
ma'am says about them, it may interest my chicks 
to know that the sled that is to rush down hill with 
them so often during this winter, gets its name from 
its nature — that is, from ever so many queer foreign 
words, all signifying to slide. In Germany a sled 
is a schlitten ; in Holland, the land of the Dutch, 
it 's a slede ; in Denmark, the country of Hans 
Christian Andersen, it is known as a slaede ; but 
in Iceland, where the long-continued snow makes 
a boy familiar with his sledge, he very naturally 
calls it sledi, which I 'm sure is quite proper and 


At first I could n't and would n't believe it, but 
when I heard the little fellow say that he read the 
statement in Governor Seward's book, I gave in, 
for of course a governor is expected to tell the exact 
truth on all occasions. 

What was it ? 

O, did n't I tell you ? Why the little chap said 
that rich Chinese mandarins wear long finger-nails, 
sometimes as long as six or eight inches, as a sign 
that they do not have to work. When nails are as 
long as this, they are protected by cases of bamboo 
or of gold. The nails are polished and stained like 

This is good news for lazy boys. All they have 
to do is to work their way to China, make their 
fortune there, and let their nails grow. 


The Nameless Ter- 
rora is not set down in 
the books, but he is a ter- 
rible creature, of small 
size — so small that you 
can't see him at all, un- 
less you 're frightened, 
and then he is prodig- 
ious. Timid little boys 
of vivid imagination see him very often, especially 
when they 're caught out after nightfall. Brave 
little boys never see him. It must be a dreadful 
thing to go through life in constant dread of the 
Nameless Terrora. 


J A C K - I N - T H E - 1* li LI' I T 



Thf, birds make great fun of human music. Do 
you know why ? Because it has laws ! Now, their 
music has laws, too, but the dear little things don't 
know it. A robin friend of mine, sitting on a 
window-sill lately, heard a music-master giving a 
little girl her music lesson. He thinks it the fun- 
niest thing in the world, and assures me, on 
the authority of the music-master, that human 
music is made entirely by little hobgoblins, who 
carry the sounds up and down the musical scale or 




iDerni— semi— qoaaver 


ladder, slowly or rapidly, according to orders. Mr. 
Semibreve, he says, is the slowest of them all. Next 
comes Mr. Mmim, who is only half as slow as 
Semibreve ; then Mr. Crotchet, who is half as slow 
as Minim ; then little Quaver, who is half as slow 
as Crotchet ; then Semi-Quaver, half as slow as 
Quaver, and finally, Demi-Semi-Ouaver, the liveliest 
little chap of them all, who can run up and down 
the whole flight, while slow old Semibreve is rolling 
to the next step. 


Well, well ! Little did I think when I asked 
some of you to find out the four mistakes in my 
absurd story, on page 54 of the November number 
of ST. Nicholas, what a tremendous uprising there 
would be among the observing young folks of this 
great country. Letters have poured in upon your 
Jack by hundreds and hundreds, and hundreds 
; again. Even the little Schoolma'am says she never 
.' saw anything like it. It is delightful.' Stacks of 
, letters from East, West, North and South, and the 
jumping-off place. A prize book, you remember, 
' was offered for the first letter received which should 
correctly point out the four mistakes. Well, on 
the 2 1st of October, by same post, came two that 
were right, and equally good — one from W. M. K. 
I Olcott, and another from Mamie A. Johnson. 
, Consequently, to each of these, the little School- 
ma'am will send a book. But here comes the 
trouble : The answers of many other children 
who live far away from New York, were just as good 

as those of W. M. K. Olcott and Mamie, who live 
close by, but of course they could not possibly be 
so early. This bothers your Jack, for he wishes to 
be very fair. Henceforth, the little Schoolma'am 
says some other plan of award must be adopted. 
Meantime she decides to send a book to the very- 
best and earliest letter that came from a distance. 
So, Master Willie L. Brooks, of Sacramento, Cal., 
you are to have a book also. Special mention must 
be made of correct answers and fine letters from 
the following boys and girls : 

Annie Gardiner, Susan H. Welles, 
May G. Holmes, Josie M. Brown. 
Nellie Breck, A. P. Folwell, Susie 
Garfield, Willie \V. Ames, Edilh Fos- 
ter. Bessie Blair, Marion W. Losee, 
"Louise," Frank D. Russell, Silas 
B. Adams, Willie B. Jones, Annie 
^(•P-fev T. Bridges, W. 'E. Graham, H. VV. 

%^~^J Lung, Ira U. Ingram, Frank O. 

^^™^V ^^^■^^ Welcome, Mary Donaldson, Carrie 

^£eU? W. Bailey. Fred. A. Walpole, Fred 

Collins, Bessie Plimpton, Nelly D. 
Marshall, F. F. Hildreth, Sallie B. 
Griggs, Edwin F. Walker, Mamie 
Hodges, Emily I. Smith, Harry N. 
Paul, Nellie Simpson, Jas. I. Weston, 
Philip S. Rust, Hester Dorsey, M. 
W Collet, John C. Williams, Louise 
E. Gleim, Harry Bennett, Julia 
Emma Boyd, Annie Goodman, Lena 
Warren, I. Buford Hendrick, Willie 
Shattuck, Jennie E. Woodrow, Ada 
Mav Seelv. Katie Pvle. Anne B. 
Webb, Mrs. N. H. Parker, Mary E. 
Walker, Bessie Thomas Lily Taylor, 
Carrie A. Abbott, R. E. Withers, Jr., 
Charles T. Thomas, Ida Graham, 
G. M. H., Sammy Chubb, Mamie 
T. Sturgis, Frank Turner, Alice Hol- 
brook, Carrie Freneh, Harrv New- 
comb, W. E. Taylor. Hattie M. 
Daniels, Mabel F. Hule, C. G. Helfelstein, Frank T. Chapman, 
R. K. Eastman, Simie Stein, Jr., Floy N. Markham, Herbert T. 
Bardwell, Helen W. Rice, Julia D. Hunter, Johnnie Knight, Johnnie 
Bachman, Alice M. Rowe, Wm. N. Tolman, Lucy V. Kerr, Etta 
C. Burt, N. Brewer, Jr., Mary L. Allen, Sarah Gallett, Gertie May 
Perry, "Atlanta Boy," Lucy Annie Whitcomb, Helen Paul, and 
Annie Todd. 

Many others sent admirable answers ; indeed, out 
of the great number of letters received, only about 
one hundred failed to be correct ; but St. Nicho- 
las cannot give room to any more names. Jack 
thanks the writers, one and all, and hopes to hear 
from them again. Here is the first correct reply 
that was opened : 

New York, Oct. 20th, 1875. 
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : 

In all my experience in the country, I think I have never seen 
crows or pigeons hop, nor robins and sparrows walk, but vice 
versa. I therefore conclude that the four mistakes in your story m 
the November number of St. Nicholas, are the statements that the 
crow and pigeon hopped, and the sparrow and robin walked. — Yours 
truly, W. M. R. Olcott, aged 13 years. 

And here is an extract from Helen D 's 

letter — a "big" girl, who does not compete for 
the prize : 

Hearing that you were interested in "hoppers and walkers." I re- 
membered that just a few davs ago we came across something on that 
subject, in "Wake Robin," by John Burroughs. That close and 
loving observer of Nature says, page 222 : " By far the greater num- 
ber of our land birds are hoppers. The sparrows, thrushes, warblers, 
woodpeckers, buntings, &c, are all hoppers." On page 215 he says: 
'• Robins belong to the thrush family. . . . See the robin hops along 
upon the ground. Plovers, sandpipers, and snipes run rapidly. 
Among the land-birds, the grouse, pigeons, quails, larks, and various 
blackbirds, walk. The swallows walk, also, whenever they use their 
feet at all, but very awkwardly." 





My Uncle Jehoshaphat had a pig, 

A pig of high degree ; 
And it always wore a brown scratch wig, 

Most beautiful for to see. 

My Uncle Jehoshaphat loved that pig, 
And the piggy-wig he loved him ; 

And they both jumped into the lake one day, 
To see which best could swim. 

1S7G l 



My Uncle Jehoshaphat he swam up, 
And the piggy-wig he swam clown ; 

And so they both did win the prize, 
Which the same was a velvet gown. 

My Uncle Jehoshaphat wore one-half, 
And the piggy-wig wore the other ; 

And they both rode to town on the brindled calf, 
To carry it home to its mother. 


Fly away, fly away, Birdie oh ! 
Bring something home to my Baby Bo ; 
Bring her a feather and bring her a song, 
And sing to her sweetly all the day long. 

Hoppety, kickety, Grasshopper oh ! 
Bring something home to my Baby Bo ; 
Bring- her a thistle and bring- her a thorn, 
Hop over her head and then begone. 

Howlibus, growlibus, Doggibus oh ! 
Bring something home to my Bab)- Bo ; 
Bring her a snarl and bring her a snap, 
And bring her a posy to put in her cap. 

Twinkily, winkily, Firefly oh ! 
Bring something home to my Baby Bo ; 
Bring her a moonbeam and bring her a star. 
Then, Twinkily Winkily, fly away far ! 

Vol. III.— 14. 





/Henceforth we hope to be able to give space every month to a Young Contributors' Department, the articles in which are to be signed with 
their writers' initials only, though we must require in each instance the real name, age, and address of the author. We shall be happy to 
hear from our young friends, and shall be guided in selecting manuscripts by their individual merit, the relative age of the author, and 
the interest of the matter for the greatest number of our readers.) 


Nearer and nearer we draw to thy side, 
Closer and closer as time goes by, 
Alas, that men dread thee and know nut why, 

O wonderful River of shadowy tide ! 

How silently past us thou glidest along, 
Onward, still onward, thro' days and years; 
Thy current, O River, is swollen with tears. 

On thy bosom thou bearest the weak and the strong. 

The aged and hoary, the young and fair, 
Thou bearest away from this sphere of pain ; 
Care may exist but for them in vain, 

Woe and affliction are things that were. 

Unending the peace of thine unseen wave. 
Unceasing thy journey to That from This; 
A glimpse of thy waters, O River, is bliss, 

Alike for the hoary, the young, and the brave. 


Ot'R boy readers, we think, will be specially interested in the 
following personal account of a cruise on the Adirondack lakes, 
written by one of our young friends, who says he likes to see 
where he is going. " Be sure you 're right as you go ahead," 
is evidently his motto ; for he rowed himself over the lakes with oars 
of his own invention that enabled him to face the bow. 


This summer I spent a month in the Adirondacks. I had twice 
been there before, and was sufficiently acquainted with the woods to 
make my way through the lakes without a guide. T entered from 
Boonville, and went into camp with two friends on Seventh Lake 
of the Fulton chain. After several days of fishing and hunting, we 
went on to Long Lake, where 1 bought a new boat, to which I at- 
tached my rowing-gear. 

This rowing-gear is a contrivance for rowing a boat which allows 
the boatman to face the bow, pulling in the same manner as with the 
ordinary oars. The reverse movement is obtained by dividing the 


oar in two parts, each part having a ball and socket-joint fastened on 
the gunwale of the. boat 

The arrangement is such that the oarsman applies his strength to 
the best mechanical advantage, and enables him 10 row faster and more 
easily than with the ordinary oar. 

The oars can also be closed up out of the way, alongside of the 


gunwale, without detaching them from the boat. While rowing, 
there is no noise from the bearings. 

With these oars, the boatman makes no more effort in steering than 
in directing his course while walking, and this lessens greatly the 
effort of rowing. He sees the blade of his oar in front of him, 
and can easily avoid obstacles, while, if he chooses to float along lazily 
for awhile, the oars can be closed out of the way of the gunwale, 
without detaching them from the boat. 

My boat is a double-bowed pine shell, fourteen feet long, and 
weighs 75 lbs., without the oars. For so short a boat, it is quite fast 
After it was all ready to float, I took it down to the landing, accom- 
panied by a curious crowd, and pulled off in fine style, as the rowing- 
gear worked much to my satisfaction. The guides, in their turn, all 
tried it and liked it. 

I spent a few days at the village on Long Lake before beginning 
my cruise One windy morning I started down the lake, in company 
with two other boats, on my way to the Saranacs. We made fine 
progress, as the wind was in our favor, and very soon crossed the 
sand-bar into the Raquette River. Here I fully realized how con- 
venient it was to see where I was going without twisting my neck. 
Very soon we got to Johnson's Portage, commonly called "carry," 
which I crossed twice, first to carry my boat, and then to carry my 
two guns and bag. This was no easy matter, as the "carry" was a 
mile and a quarter long, and very muddy from the recent rains. 
After dinner I rowed on down the river, changing my course at Stony 
Creek Brook, and that evening crossed Spectacle Lakes to Indian 
" Carry." At the landing, the people who saw me silently and swifdy 
approaching the shore, were quite astonished to see my position in 
the boat I was now on the Upper Saranac, one of the finest lakes 
of the woods. The next day I rowed down to Bartlett's Hotel, and 
then on to Martin's. As I often rowed in company with other boats, 
my oar was well tested with theirs. I soon found that for hunting, 
this oar would take the place of the paddle in most cases. I went to 
Paul Smith's by way of the lakes, and the day I left St Rige's was 
very pleasant being neither too hot nor too cold ; the lake was smooth 
as glass and nearly as clear. After spending a few days on Lake 
Tupper, I set out alone for the Thousand Isles, by way of Potsdam 
and Ogdensburg, running the rapids of the Raquette River as far a^ 
possible, and several rimes narrowly escaping a capsize. 

For two days I ran rapids and " carried " around falls. Often before 
losing the sound of the rapid above, I would hear the roar of water- 
below, and in a few minutes be gliding swiftly down, the noise of trie 
waters drowning all other sounds, and the boat being enveloped^" 
a cloud of spray. The intense excitement of a run down the rapids 
cannot be described. 

On the St Lawrence, while rowing through a heavy swell, my oars 
worked well, convincing me that they are well adapted for rowing in 
a heavy sea. 

I stayed among the Thousand islands for several days, and the 
boatmen all liked my oars. f 

I left Alexandria Bay for Montreal on a day boat, taking my canoe ; 

is 7 6.; 

T H K I . E T T E R-BOX, 


with me. It was a fine day, and I enjoyed my sail down the rapids 
greatly. From Montreal I went directly on by rail to Bellows Tails, 
where I spent a pleasant Sunday. Tuesday morning, at ten o'clock, 
I left Bellows Falls in my boat to row home on the Connecticut River. 
That ni^'ht I stopped at Vernon, Vc, having rowed thirty miles. 
The next day I rowed to Hatfield, Mass. Thursday I reached 
Thompsonville, Ct., and Friday afternoon, at four o'clock, found 
myself at Middletown, Ct., having made, in less than four days, a 
hundred and fifty miles. 

Coming down the river I was often stopped by persons who wished 
to examine "the new-fangled oars." Once, a man on the bank 
shouted to me, "Young man, you are rowing the wrong way." I 
replied, "Perhaps you don't know which way I am going." I made 
but two " carries " on the Connecticut, and ran all the swift water 
below Holyoke. So ended a very pleasant and successful trip, during 
which I rowed about four hundred miles in my boat; and I certainly 
had seen far more than if I had been rowing backward all the way. 


As the nine o'clock night-bell rang. I sauntered down the hall of 
our boarding-school, and stopped a minute to see that Nell and Anna 
were all right. Upon finding that they were sure that a man was in 
their closet, I investigated the three inches space between a trunk and 
the wall, and relieved their terror-stricken minds. Then I turned 
into my own room, laughing amoment with Eva and Louise Bishop, 
over our witty neighbor's last sally. The bell "for putting out the 
gas" rang, and darkness reigned, save where a teacher's kerosene 

lamp illuminated her own apartment. Morpheus is generally kind to 
forlorn maidens, and tn ten minutes the whole forty of us were asleep. 

I dreamed of the prairies and all the dear faces — but is that our 
principal's? Yes; and white with terror, for she is shaking me and 
saying: "You must waken : one-half of this house is on fire. Hurrj 
on your waterproof, and help Eva with Louise." 

I rush to the hall — Louise has fainted — Eva is gray from fear, and 
the glare renders her almost corpse-like. We carry her sister's light 
form down to the side door; some one has sent for carriages, and 
there they are ; the horses frantic with terror. I don't see Anna or 
Nell, and shut the back door with a snap. Those two children belong 
to me. I must find them. I go back — the smoke is stilling. They arc 
alone, on a short hall. In the passage the principal stops me. I 
scream, yell the girls' names. She throws up her arms with an awful 
expression of horror, and sobs, "Great Heavens! I've forgotten 
them." I push past her and am pounding on their door. The two 
girls are shivering in their white night-clothes. Anna's great black 
eyes dilate, as she tries to say, bravely: "What can we do?" 
"Little Nell" moans " Mother." I look back — the flames are 
creeping up the stairs. There's only one chance. We tear the sheets 
in strips and fasten them around Nell; then warning her to "keep 
cool, dearie," we let her down inch by inch. Then Anna and I look 
at each other— only one can go — two girls, to whom life is just open- 
ing. "I promised to watch over you, and you must go. Anna," I 
manage to say, and I tie the cotton strips about her waist. "You know 
1 am strong, trust in me; go back to dear old Illinois, and tell Carl 
I kept my promise." "Good-night." The knots hurt my hands, 
and it is stifling. I can hardly hold any longer. At last, the weight 

is gone, and I turn over, to find the sun shining full in my face. 

the sheet twisted round and round the bed-post, and the rising-bell 
ringing. k. v>. t 



Nine Little Goslings. By Susan Coolidge. Boston: Roberts 
Bros. — A delightful book of stories and pictures. The first chapter 
tells how Johnny, who is not a boy, had a very narrow escape from 
something which was not an accident ; the next and next, up to the 
ninth and last, give each an interesting history of events which seem 
as if they must have happened somewhere; while one and all arc 
most originally and pleasantly told in the service of Mother Goose's 
melodies. We cordially advise all of our young friends of from eight 
to eighty years to read this book. 

Heads and Tails. By Grace Greenwood. — A profusely illus- 
trated book about little animals, for very young readers, which, being 
by Grace Greenwood, is sprightly and entertaining from the first 
page to the last. J. B. Ford & Co., N. V. 

Doings of the Bodlev Family in Town and Country. By 
the author of "Stories from My Attic;" "Dream Children," and 
" Pcven Little People and their Friends." (With seventy-seven 
illustrations.) New York: Hurd & Houghton. — A book that will 
enchant you, young friends, little and big. and delight your parents — 
so good and rich throughout, so charmingly illustrated and so prettily 
and quaintly covered, that it is an honor to the Bodley Family as 
well as to the author. 

Victorian Poets. By Edmund Clarence Stedman Boston : 
James R. Osgood & Co. — Boys and girls who are old enough to 
really crave a knowledge of modern English poetry, and young 
enough to require in their critic the warmth and svmpathy of a true 
poet, will find this very thorough and scholarly work of Mr. Sted- 
man's a treasure indeed. Being in no sense that dreary, bloodless 
thing, a condensed literary chronicle, it is compact as a manual, and 
yet so full and satisfactory, so suggestive, so like a long talk with just 
the right person on a subject upon which one is most eager to be in- 
formed, that its single volume, soon read, seems to have broadened 
out into a dozen, and the profitable time spent in reading it to have 
been expanded a hundred fold. We should be glad to see this book, 
with its very complete index and helpful side notes, introduced into 
our higher academies and colleges. 

[ales Out or School. By Frank R. Stockton. (With one 
hundred and fifty illustrations.) New York: Scribner, Armstrong 
and Co. — Knowing that young persons can gain information in 
other ways than by blackboards and text-books, Mr. Stockton, not 
long sin-;e, whisked away a host of American young folk on a 
holiday tour of "Roundabout Rambles." It was a delightful excur- 
sion, and for those who enjoyed it to bid good-bye to their jolly friend 
and resume their old studies was something like returning to school 
on the day after a picnic. But the sight-seeing and adventure of the 
journey must certainly have added a new zest to their studies, and 
turned many a dull page into an interesting one. It will be happy 
news, therefore, for them to learn that, during their school-hours, Mr. 
Stockton has himself heen busy in collecting the materials for this 
charming series of "Tales Out of School." which are fully as inter- 
esting as the "Rambles," and will make the brightest winter-evening 
fireside grow even brighter still. Between the beautiful covers of 
this new volume are the most fanciful stories, and the most graphic 
descriptions of strange and wonderful things in nature and art, that 
Mr. Stockton has ever written. 

The Young Suryfyor. By J. T. Trowbridge. Osgood & Co., 
Boston. — Here we have, in book form, the capital story of Jack 
Hazard and his Western experiences. St. Nicholas readers need 
not be told that ihis story will well bear reading again, while those 
who are not familiar with Tnrk. Vinnie, Wad. Old Peakslow, little 
Chokie and the rest of the lively people of the story, should lose no 
time in making their acquaintance. We think this one of the best 
books of the Jack Hazard series. 

Eight Cousins, now published in book form by Roberts Bros., 
Boston, met with such a cordial reception in St. Nicholas, that it 
must become one of Miss Alcott's most popular books. Everywhere, 
the children, the girls especiallv, lake the greatest interest in Rose. 
Each of her seven cousins has his admirers, to be sure, and there 
are people who almost worship Uncle Alec; but Rose is the queen 
of the story. We think, too, that Jo" of "Little Women" 
will have a powerful rival in this delightful young girl, who is as 
pretty as she is good, and who is so very good. These stories of Mr. 
Trowbridge and Miss Alcott have gone side by side through St. 
Nicholas, and now that they have separated and passed out into 
the wide world, we wish them the best of good fortune. 




The Eig Brother. By George Cary Eggleston. G. P. Putnam's 
Sons, New York — This is a story of Indian war in the early part of 
this century. It is full of the adventures of brave whites — boys as 
well as men — .vith savage red men, and abounds in stirring scenes of 
frontier warfare. Rut the book will do more than give the boys pic- 
tures of Indian fights. It relates a history of a very important part 
of our country's experience, and will tell many a youngster a great 
deal that he never knew before. 

The Rose Library. (Popular Literature of all Countries.) New 
York: Scribner, Welford & Armstrong. — These very tasteful little 
volumes, all illustrated, and only 50 cents each, will meet the needs 
of many young folk who wish to own standard story-books, yet can- 
not afford to buy expensive volumes. The works cf this series, now 
before us, are : Undine and the Two Captains, by De La Motte 
Fouque (a new translation). Picciola, or The Prison Flower, 
by X. B. Saintine; The Four Gold Pieces, a Story of Brittany, 
by Julie Gourand ; Robert's Holidays, by N". Danvers (founded 
on the French of Z. Fleuriot ; The House on Wheels, by Madame 
de Stolz, and Sea Gull Rock, by M. Jules Sandeau. 

Frisk and his Flock, by Mrs. D. P. Sanford, is a bright 
account of a Muck of girls and boys at a country school, and of the 
wise and funny way the dog Frisk helped Miss Agatha, the teacher, 
to manage her scholars. It is a large, handsome book, with pictures 
that will delight the young folks. E. P. Button & Co., N. Y. 

Frojn American Tract Society, New York: 

Proud Little Dodv. By Sarah E. Chester. — This is a story 
that little girls will read over and over again with ever fresh interest. 
Dody is a comical, lovable little creature, and there are so many 
portraits of her, from the time she locks herself into her mamma's room 
to the day she climbs the tree to show Tom what girls can do, that 
she seems like an old friend at the last 

Splendid Times is a handsome volume, and its pages are crowded 
with fine pictures. Its author, Mrs. Margaret Sangster, knows well 
how to tell tales that children like. 

We have also received from the same publishers, Five Happy 
Weeks, by Mrs. Sangster: The Birthday Present, Grandpapa's 
Home, The Prize Medal and Other Stories, by S. Annie 
Frost: The Riverside Farm-House, by Mrs. M. t E. Miller; 
Bought With a Price, by A. L. O. E. : Good Angels, and 
Other Stories; How Tiptoe Grew, by Catharine Williams; 
The Holly Boy ; Burdocks and Daisies, and Other Stories. 

Floy Lindsley and Her Friends, by the author of "A Sum- 
mer in a Forest," is intended for older children than any of the 
above. It is an interesting sequel to that pleasant book, " A Summer 
in a Forest," and here we meet again with the Lindsleys, and the 
Round Point people — Abriatha, Dorfie, Cush, and all the rest. But 

those who have not read the previous volume 1 
plete in itself. 

1 find the story com- 

The Shining River. From Oliver Ditson & Co., Boston.— A 
collection of New Music for Sunday-schools — by H. S. & W. O. 
Perkins— arid a good collection, we should say. Although it contains 
many new pieces never before published, familiar and favorite hymns 
arc not discarded. We wonder anew, at sight of this, why, with all 
due regard to economy, the covers of the Sunday-school song-books 
cannot be made just a little less ugly and uninviting. 

Practical Hints on the Selection and Use of the Micro- 
scope. By John Phin. Industrial Publication Society, New York. 

The Taxidermist's Manual. By Capt. Thomas Brown. G. 
P. Putnam's Sons, New York. 

These are two excellent books, and though somewhat advanced 
for little people, will doubtless prove of interest and use to some of 
our older readers who care for microscopical investigations, or who 
stuff and prepare birds, squirrels, &c. 

History of My Friends. From the French of Emile Achard. 
G. P. Putnam's Sons. — This is a series of excellent stories about ani- 
mals. Some of them are exceedingly interesting. 

Mice at Play. By Neil Forest. Roberts Brothers. — A story 
which is not only Interesting, but teaches some good lessons to old 
people as well as young ones. 

Six to Sixteen. By Juliana Horatia Ewing Roberts Brothers. — 
This is an English story, which may prove of interest ti > older readers. 

Captain Hatteras. By Jules Verne. Osgood & Co. — Jules 
Verne is always astonishing, sometimes too much so ; but this book 
of adventure at the North Pole is one of his best works. 

Jolly Good Times, by P. Thome, is a fresh, lively narrative 
of child-life on a farm. The varied experiences that cluster around 
that existence are portrayed very faithfully in this neat little volume. 
The book contains several capital illustrations by Addie Ledyard. 
Roberts Bros., Boston. 

Family Records, published by Henry Holt & Co., N. Y., is a 

large and handsome volume, with blank pages for all sorts of family 
records — accounts of births, weddings, tooth -cuttings, and various 
noteworthy events in the career of each member of the family. Such 
a book, when filled, will be a most valuable family treasure. 

Silver Threads of Song. — By H. Millard. Gordon & Co. — A 
good music book, with many excellent songs, &c, suitable for 
schools and families. At the end of the book is a " Musical Char- 
ade," which ought to be interesting to children who can sing. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Can you tell me the best thing to hold 
card-houses together in the Christmas City, as gum-arabic mucilage 
does not hold them firmly ? W. F. Bridge, Jr. 

If you buy good mucilage, you will find it satisfactory. If you 
made the mucilage yourself, perhaps you made it too thin. 

Lausanne, Suisse, Oct. 17, 1875. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have been taking your Magazine ever 
since it came out, but I never wrote but one letter to you, and that 
was about crystallizing flowers. 

I do love your book so much, I took it when I lived in Washing- 
ton, D. C. ; and when we started for Europe, I thought I would have 
to give it up, but mamma said I might have it sent to me; so now it 
is sent to London, and from London to Lausanne, where I am at a 
French boarding-school ; and I like it very much. 
Please tell Miss Alcott I liked the " Eight Cousins" very much 
1 cannot think of any more to say, so good-bye. 

I remain your loving and constant reader, 

Gertrude Curner. 
Your book is such a pleasure to me ! 

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to ask some of the boys and girls, 
through you, why it is "darkest just before dawn." If you will ask 
them, you will very much oblige 

Your friend, Florence Gardiner. 

A little boy, with original ideas, sends us a poem on Labor, 
which he says is of his "own composion." Here are two of the 
verses : 

Even in Eden there was toil, 

And patience. Adam had to wait, 
And cultivate the fruitful soil, 
And labor for his mate. 

And now there's labor in the world, 

To keep the world a-going : 
Each person has his proper share — 

Some reaping, and some sowing. 

"A Reader," — H. H. was mistaken, and Jack is right. The 
Rev. Charles Ludwig Dodgson, of England, wrote "Alice in Won- 

Stuttgart, Oct. 17. 

Dear St. Nicholas: We were all gready interested in "Eight 
Cousins." Rose's "learning bones" reminds me of one of our 
studies at school. A physician comes into one of the higher classes 
once a week, and speaks of the construction of the human body, 
and of its various parts. He brings bones and pictures along to 
make it more easy for us to understand. He has models of the 
heart, lungs, and brains, of gypsum, fashioned so that they can be 
taken apart. They have the colors of the natural organs, and I find 
them very interesting. Recently, he brought an eye of " papier 
mache," which he says is a true work of art. Of course it is much 

i8 7 6.] 




larger than a natural eye, but all the small nerves and muscles are 
given. I think such models give us a better idea of ourselves than 
pictures do. 

The school was founded in 1818, by Queen Catharine of Wiirtem- 
berg, and it bears her name. About nine hundred girls go in and 
out daily. There are eight classes, each*with two or three divisions. 
Two years ago, a higher school for the educating of teachers was 
added to the Catharinenstift. Every winter an afternoon course 
of study is opened, in which is taught that which the eighth class 
learns during the whole year. Twice a week lectures are held by a 
professor on the history of arts. Last year we had the history of 
painting; this winter it will be the history of architecture. French 
is taught very thoroughly, and almost daily, in all the classes; 
English is only a secondary study. Every Thursday we have to 
listen to a sermon. The rector wears his chancel-gown, and 
preaches upon the text of the following Sunday. I don't see the 
use of these sermons, for the girls don't pay much attention to them. 
While the last rector lived, they were obliged to write compositions f 
about the sermons; but the present rector, although very strict in 
some things, takes this easy. 

As a general rule, Stuttgart has very good schools, although the 
method of teaching is exceedingly slow. Oije girl counted up all 
the holidays during the eight years she passed at the Catharinenstift, 
and found that two whole years had been holidays. 

Hoping to see your dear magazine soon, I remain your friend, 

Anna Helmke. 

M. E. A. — Jack will print your clever story. 

Mamie A. Johnson. — Please send post-office address again to 
Little Schoolma'am, care of St. Nicholas magazine, so that she 
may send you a book. {See " Hoppers and Walkers," page 199.) 

Dear St. Nicholas: Hiram G asks if there are any other of 

your readers who have seen live potato-bugs washed up on the beach. 
I live about nine miles from the Atlantic Ocean ; and on Fire Island 
last summer I saw, you might almost say, hills of them, the greater 
part alive, washed up by the surf. — One of your constant readers and 
admirers, Willard P. Reid, 

Brooklyn, Oct. 29, 1875. 

My Dear St. Nicholas: Mamma says to ask you if you think 
it is wise for me, a boy eight years old, to begin to read the St. 
Nicholas as soon as I rise, and during all my play-hours? 

I am so fond of it, and find so much of interest in it, that / think 
it is the best kind of play for me — don't you '! 

Papa has subscribed for all of the Abbott's Histories for me. if I 
will not tease my little sister; but you don't know what fun it is. I 
tell him boys will be boys ; still I think I have improved a little. 
Mamma says, to put a big stroke under the "little." 

Please write my name down among the Bird-defenders. We have 
birds in large numbers in the trees in front of our house. — Yours 
truly, Frank C. Higgins. 

James E. W. writes: "Mamma thinks the information I get 
from St. Nicholas is a good part of my education." 

It seems that Sarah B. Wilson's riddle was also published in 
''Our Young Folks''' for December, 1872, and the answers then 

■ elicited are substantially those that have been sent to St. Nicholas. 
We print the following as a concise statement of the two answers 
generally given : 

Springfield. Mass., Oct. 28, 1875. 
Etjitors of St. Nicholas: The riddle sent by Sarah B. Wilson 
is not given correctly. The principal differences between it and the 
correct one are near the end. The tenth line should read, "The 
wffis ambition and the parson's dues," and in the next to the last, 
i " By the first letters quickly will be shown." The puzzle was written 
by Miss Anne Seward, an English authoress, who left ,£50 in her 
will to any one who would solve it. An answer to it was published in 

f " Our Young Folks " for March, 1873, page 190. It was as follows: 
Apollo Belvidere; Light; Evidence; X, the cross ; Agriculture; 

■ Nuncupatory; Daystar (Venus); Redemption; Ingots; and Alter- 
age, or altarage. The first letters of these make Alexandria. In the 

I May number, of the same volume, page 315, was another answer, 

J given by a lady, who said that her mother had given her this answer 

t over sixty years ago. The words were : Laocoon ; Eye (I); Time; 

I Cornucopia; Hope; Fidelity; Idalis, or Venus; Ease; Lucre; 

L Duty— the initials spelling Litchfield, the birthplace of Dr. Johnson, 
and known in the time of the Romans. I have not known whether 

the reward was claimed or not. 

Frank H. Burt. 

explains that Altarage is " an emolument of priests arising from obla- 
tions through the means of an altar," and alterage is " the fostering of 
a child." The following three answers are inserted in full as being 
new and original. The first comes from J. P. B. : 

Apollo Belvidere, fair work of art ; 
Diamond, bright gem that nature doth imparl 
Retainer, needful in the lawyer's case ; 
iris, fair rainbow, signal is of peace. 
A cheerful air the plowman's steps attends; 
The faithful soldier, name with honor blends ; 
The lover's vow may in the very name 
A promise of a sure "remembrance" claim ; 
The orb of night shines 'twixt the earth and sun ; 
Pardon is granted, though it be not won ; 
Lucre the miser loves, as do the Jews, 
Nor wits, nor parsons, eulogies refuse 
By the initials of these words is shown 
"Adrianoplc," city of renown. 

W. T. Prescott sends this ; 

The noblest object in the works of art, 
The brightest gem which nature can impart. 
The point essential in the lawyer's case, 
The well-known signal in the time of peace. 
The plowman's prompter when he drives the 

The soldier's duty and the lover's vow, 
The planet seen between the earth and sun, 
The prize which merit never yet has won, 
The miser's treasure and the badge of Jews, 
The wit's ambition and the parson's dues. 

Apollo Belvidere. 
Retaining fee. 



Neiv Moon. 




Now if your noble spirit can divine 
A corresponding word for every line. 
By the first letters quickly will be shown 
An ancient city of no small renown. 

By taking the first letter of each corresponding word, we have 

" Agrigentum," an ancient city of Sicily. 

And, finally, here is an answer giving a new authorship and inter- 
pretation to the riddle ; 

Editors St. Nicholas: The riddle sent by your correspondent 
concerning an ancient city-, was written by the Rev. Solyman Brown, 
formerly of your city, and a Swedenborgian, also a dentist. The 
riddle will be found in a volume of his poems at least as far back as 
1836. The answer is " Terosolyma," the ancient name for Jerusa- 
lem. I leave your readers the rest of the solution. Wm, Ward. 

[No. 1260.] South Branch, N. J., October 29, 1875. 

Editor of St. Nicholas — Dear Friend: You have printed in 
your valuable magazine almost everything that will amuse or instruct 
or benefit your many friends. Among my acquaintances there is 
quite a mania just now to see who can write the most words on a 
postal card. About the middle of this month I sent a postal card off 
with 600 words; I thought it was full, but since then have written 
one with 1055 words. I am 300 ahead of any one else that I know, 
and do not think it can be excelled. 

Bear with me a little longer, and I will describe a plan I have fol- 
lowed for some years that is often of much value to me, and I think 
will be of interest to others. It is keeping an account of correspond- 

I commerced in 1863, when I sent ten letters and received nine ; 
since then it has been increasing steadily, till last year (1874) I sent 
279, and received 257, making a total for the twelve years of 1008 
sent and 913 received. This explains the No. at the top of sheet. 

During die year several letter^ were lost and detained by being 
wrongly forwarded by postmasters. By my book 1 have been able to 
furnish P. O. Departrnentwith exact date of sendingthe letter, receipt 
of word of non-receipt, and date of every letter sent in reference to the 
same to any postmaster on the route. Have found it very valuable, 
and been able to recover some of these letters which were quite valu- 

My book is six inches wide by seven and a half long; it has fiv,- 
spaces: first for date; second, number sent; third, name; fourth, 
date, and fifth, number received. See as follows : 

One or both of the answers given in Frank's letter have also been 
sent in by Emile Low, E. N. Fussell, "Comus," A. E. Johnson, 
Mary W. Calkins, J. D. Early, " Winfried," Samuel Williston, Daisy 
Gill, and "Speca." Charles Hart Payne sends similar answers, and 


Feb. 19 1 

Apr. 14 . . 

Aug. 25 6 

May 11 3 

Sept. 4 7 

June 15 4 

July*-- 5 

i inch wide. \£ in 

letters sent. received. 

N. Y. Tract Society Feb. 23. 1 

Jones, Brother & Co Sept 9. 7 

Biglow & Main Apr. 20, 2 

Gov. S. J. Tilden July 14- 5 

Wm. C. Brvant May 26, 3 

Willcox & Oibbs June 2S, 4 

First Asst. P. M. General. . Aug. 5, 6 

1 in. wide. J4 in. 

Hoping you will receive this with favor, I remain, most respect- 
fully yours, Amos Morse. 



I January, 



I AM composed of 14 letters. My 6, 2, I, 2, 4, 7, was 
the goddess of orchards and fruit. My 1, 10, 8, 11, was 
the god of war. My 12, 7, 5, 3, S, 9, was the god of 
time. My I, 2, I, 13, 14, was the god of wit and gay 
conversation. My 6, 10, 9, was considered as the in- 
spirer of consternation, or panics. My whole was the 
favorite haunt of Pegasus. M. 


DICK Dobbin was mightily given to — ; 
His tongue ran along at a terrible — , 
And e'en all the time that his victuals he — 
He chatted away just the same. 

His father would scold, and his mother would — 
And vow that their son was an ill-mannered — 
But Dick would not stop till he'd had his talk — 
And that time, alas ! never came. a. b. c. 


Fill the first blank with a certain word, and the 
second blank with the same word decapitated. 1. The 

resulted in 2. A boy made a toy in our 

3. Did you have to for the ? 4. Can the eat 

an — ; — ? 5. The belongs to this . 6. This — 

is full of 



The birthplace of a famous conqueror; the name of 
another who died 323 years before the Christian Era, 
and whose coffin, composed of a single block of Egyptian 
breccia, is still preserved in the British Museum ; a re- 
nowned hunter, and the founder of a noted city, whose 
walls were a hundred feet high, and inclosed fifteen 
hundred lofty towers ; a Grecian city, once famous for 
its learning and refinement; a renowned city in the 
mountains of Gilead, where one king of Israel died, 
another was wounded, and a third anointed king; and 
a city of Japan, now becoming noted for its rapid growth 
in Western civilization. Take the first letter of each of 
the above, and form the name of a cheery little inmate 
of many of our homes, and also of a group of islands 
celebrated for a volcanic peak more than 12,000 feet 
high. F. R. F. 


This puzzle is so good that we give it a place here, 
although we are not sure that it has never been printed 
before : 

The first you do to shun a stone 

Flung at you in a passion ; 
The next, for brilliant sights and sounds. 

Is sought by folks of fashion ; 
The third, a friend will strive to do 

When your intent is wrong ; 
But of the fourth there are but few 
Who to the fifth belong. 


I. From the name of a tree except the middle letter, 
and make it masculine. 2. From a word of seven letters 
denoting well-known, except the middle one, and leave 
a tree ; from this except the third letter, and make it icy 
cold. 3. From a heavy piece of wood, a noted river may 
be formed by excepting the letter "m." 4. Except the 
central letter from a wreath, and leave a mountain hut. 
5. Drop the middle letter from a carousal, and leave 

what often succeeds it. 6. Except the middle letter from 
a division of a poem, and you will see a noted Roman. 
7 Except the middle letter from a small white cord, and 
leave an adjective indicating its use. 8. Except the 
middle letter from the Mexican cherry, and leave a 
species offish. 9. By excepting the central letter from 
a favorite confection, a- sacred mountain is left ; from 
this except the third letter, and leave an animal which 
lives near it 10. From a deep ravine except the fourth 
letter, and leave a law. CHARL. 


Behead and curtail words having the following defi- 
nitions, and leave a complete word square. 1. Wounds. 
2. Packages. 3. Encourages. CYRIL DEANE. 


Reading downward and across alike. 1. A numeral. 
2. A boy's nickname. 3. A claw. 4. A number. 5. 
Damp. 6. A negative. 7. A consonant. C. D. 


Whole, I am to strike a blow ; 

Beheaded once, a coach I go. 

Change my new head, and I pass 

For an ensign or an ass. 

Alter head, and I 'm a need ; 

And again, a load indeed. 

Once more change, and I 'm a frame ; 

Still again. I 'm a surname. 

Head anew, and I 'm to hold ; 

Yet again (if you're so bold), 

Make of me a bag, or wine. 

Or a garment neat and fine. 

Head anew, and I 'm behind ; 

Still again, a nickname find. 

Off my head and give me two, 

I '11 look wis^e and wear a queue. 

Give others two instead of these, 

And I 'm as dexterous as you please. 

I., w. N. 

I. A GRACEFUL bird. 2. Crockery. 3. Parts of the 
human body. 4. A bird's habitation. RUBY SEAL. 


I. Napoleon thought it that he should, as an 

exile. . 2. procession c^mkl 

not well have been . 3. A debtor said, " Will you 

take dollar when you have so much ? 

4. I am in dressing her hair ; 

and braid the rest. 5. She made a to renounce the 

world long before she entered . 6. He has no 

time for , for he with work. '■ 

They obey his only at their . S. Such ignor- 
ance of botany was not to be ; he could not have 

from a shrub. 9. His had acquired 

a through rust. 10. Immunity from mice was 

by a . R. 


I. Trackers. 2. To divide. 3. A contemptible per- 
son. 4. In all towers. 5. To brown. 6. Part of your 
body. 7. Seen in cotton factories. Centrals, read down- 
ward, name an officer. CYRIL deane. 




7.13.15. 5.13.6,7.11., 

(The answer to above contains nineteen letters, and is to be obtained from the pictures and numbers given.) 



BEHEAD and curtail words having the following sit;- I AM a word of three syllables. My first and second 

nifications, and leave a complete diamond: J. A united, form what we all have been, what most of us 

beverage. 2. Thrusts from a pointed weapon. 3. love, yet what nobody likes to be called ; my third has 

Workmen on slates. 4. Encourages. 5. A time. The been always an important part of the great city o( 

following letters and words form the diamond: 1. A London; and my whole is the name of an ancient 

consonant. 2. A border. 3. Afterward. 4. A wager, city in which the first astronomical observations were 

5. A consonant. cyril deane. made. ?. R. F. 





(Make out the names of the articles on the tree from the hints given. Some packages contain only a ticket for the present, which would 

be too large for a tree. The answer to No. i is Umbr — ella. St Nicholas has a very pretty Christmas present on its 

Christmas-tree waiting to be sent to the first girl or boy who sends correct answers to this riddle.) 

I. Four-fifths of a brown pigment and a girl's name. 
2. Equality, a vowel, and a planet. 3. An emblem of 
eternity. 4. A pair, and four-sevenths of some veal 
steaks. 5. A five-dollar bill and the A r . V. Tribune. 
6. A bond, and certain amphibious animals. 7. A 
sentinel. 8. Part of the head, and what Saturn has. 9. 
Sixty-six and two-thirds cents. 10. A man mentioned 
in Genesis, n. A Swiss hero, a letter of the alphabet, 
and to contend. 12. A command to keep to the right, 
followed by a pair of Cupids. 13. A crime, an adverb, 
a relative, sailors, and an adverb. 14. A cooked dish, 
notches, and a part of the hand. 15. Inhabitants of 
a portion of Great Britain, and the inside of a watch. 
16. Skating people. 17. One penny, and a pouch. 
iS. A member of the human frame, a poor dog, and 
a commander. 19. Part of the body, and bonds of 
union. 20. A peripatetic receptacle. 21. A geometric 
figure, part of the body, and trimming. 22. One of 
the early inhabitants of Albion, and a pitcher. 23. 
Part of your body, prefixed by twice yourself. 24. 
L. L. 25. Passions and blows. 26. A parent and a 
bird. 27. What we find in the store, and in the win- 
dow. 28. A gentleman, and part of a sail-boat. 29. 
An insect and a snare. 30. A letter and a spirit. 31. 
Part of the window. 32. A nickname, to avoid, and 
breezy. 33. Tableaux. 34. Half of an exclamation, 
and a tool. 35. To steal. 36. Two letters. 37. Part 
of the body, and a wedge. 38. A powerful instrument, 
part of a window, and an envelope. 39. What a printer 
dreads, an article, and an exclamation. 40. Something 
that can be easily turned into a dairy. 41. A fastening, 
and a pronoun. 42. Light, and darkness. 43. Four- 
sevenths of a longing, and a preposition. 44. Four- 
sixths of a flower, and a preposition. 45. A reptile, part 
of an oyster, and part of a domestic fowl. 46. Part of an 
elephant, part of a cat, and part of a fox. 47. A feature, 
gaudy. 48. Parts of a city. 49. Part of a stage-coach, 
and a nickname. 50. A shoe-string, and part of a fish- 
hook. AUNT SUE. 


Double Acrostic. — Holmes, Lowell. 1. Hill. 2. O, O. 
. Manoeuvre. 5. Enigmatical. 6. Soul. 
Easy Rebus. " Up in a balloon, boys, sailing round the moon. 
Latin Word-Pyramid. — " Veni, vidi, vici." 
1 E 1 {'4 of " Labor diei ") 

d o N E c 

1 N D I G N 

Law. Diamond Remainders.— r A w 


r A D D L E s 

h E L M s 

d E N 

Ex. ' Export, Exceed, Excel, Exile, 
Extract, Express. 

Square-Word. — 1. Leafy. 2. Eagle. 

Incomplete Sentences. — 1. Beech. 
Freeze, frieze. 4 Steals, stake. 
Diamond Puzzle. — R 


3. Agues. 4 Fleet. 5. Yesty. 
beach. 2. Phrase, frays. 3. 



Cross-Word Enisma.— Charles Dickens. 

Easy Enigma.— Merit, remit, timer, mitre. 

Pictorial Acrostic— Fish-pond. 

F — nx-tra— P 
I — ndig— O 
S— aucepa — N 
H — ea - D 

Prefix Puzzle. — Prefix m. liA^un, cawcu 
Export, Explain, Extract, Express. 


Extent, Expense, export, explain 
Hidden Squab e-Wokd,— 




M t 

Charade. — Cambyses. 
Enigma. — Washington Irving. 
n „.~ ,...- , n; 1: 

II 11 VIII L^- 

Climax— limax. 2. Sirene— Irene. 3. Mo- 

Decapitation's. — 1. \_11max — iimax. z. oirene — ire 
rion — Orion. 4. Regret — Egret. 

d Double Acrostic. — Macbeth, OthclK 

ion — unon. 4. ivegrei 
Concealed Double Acrostic — m ai . 
M— ement — O 

A — ncien — T 
C —as— H 
B — al— E 
E — ase — L 
T — ota- 
H — er 


Answers to Puzzles in November Number were received, previous to November iS, from Arnold Guyot Cameron, Nellie S. Colby, 
Katie E. Gilhgan, " Bettie and Laura," " Cora," William C. Delanov, John Edward Hill, " Golden Eagle,' 7 Charley W. Coleman, Florence 
A Merriam, "Jamie and Lucv, " Tommy W. Fry, Fannie E. Gushing, G. A Wells, " Sunflower and Hollyhock," Wm. R. Brown, Annie G , 
Rufus Nock. "G E M.," Mamie A. Johnson, William A. Crowell, Edith N. Spear, E Parmelee Prendce, William F. Abbett, George 
Voorhee?, Jr., and R V Beach 


[See "The Black Douglas."] 


Vol. III. 

FEBRUARY, 1876. 

No. 4. 


By Hezekiah Butterworth. 

King Edward I. of England nearly conquered 
Scotland. They did not have photographs in 
those days, but had expressive and descriptive 
names for people of rank, which answered just as 
well. So Edward was known as " Longshanks." 
It was from no lack of spirit or energy that he 
did not quite complete the stubborn work, but he 
died a little too soon. On his death-bed he called 
his pretty, spiritless son to him, and made him 
promise to carry on the war ; he then ordered that 
his body should be boiled in a caldron, and that his 
bones should be wrapped up in a bull's hide, and 
carried at the head of the army in future campaigns 
against the Scots. After these and some other 
queer requests, death relieved him of the hard 
politics of this world, and so he went away. Then 
his son, Edward II., tucked away the belligerent 
old King's bones among the bones of other old 
kings in Westminster Abbey, and spent his time in 
dissipation among his favorites, and allowed the 
resolute Scots to recover Scotland. 

Good James, Lord Douglas, was a very wise man 
in his day. He may not have had long shanks, but 
he had a very long head, as you shall presently see. 
He was one of the hardest foes with which the two 
Edwards had to contend, and his long head proved 
quite too powerful for the second Edward, who, in 
his single campaign against the Scots, lost at Ban- 
nockburn nearly all that his father had gained. 

The tall Scottish castle of Roxburgh stood near 
the border, lifting its grim turrets above the Teviot 
and the Tweed. When the Black Douglas, as 
Lord James was called, had recovered castle after 
castle from the English, he desired to gain this 
stronghold, and determined to accomplish his wish. 

VOL. HI. — 15. 

But he knew it could be taken only by surprise, 
and a very wily ruse it must be. He had outwitted 
the English so many times, that they were sharply 
on the lookout for him. 

How could it be done ? 

'T is an old Yule-log story, and you shall be told. 

Near the castle was a gloomy old forest, called 
Jedburgh. Here, just as the first days of spring 
began to kindle in the sunrise and sunsets, and 
warm the frosty hills, Black Douglas concealed 
sixty picked men. 

It was Shrove-tide, and Fasten's Eve, immediately 
before the great Church festival of Lent, was to be 
celebrated with a great gush of music and blaze of 
light and free offerings of wine in the great hall of 
the castle. The garrison was to have leave for 
merry-making and indulging in drunken wassail. 

The sun had gone down in the red sky, and the 
long, deep shadow began to fall on Jedburgh woods, 
the river, the hills, and valleys. 

An officer's wife had retired from the great hall, 
where all was preparation for the merry-making, to 
the high battlements of the castle, in order to quiet 
her little child and put it to rest. The sentinel, from 
time to time, paced near her. She began to sing : 

Hush ye, 

Hush ye, 

Hush ye, 

Do not fret ye ; 

Little pet ye ! 

The Black Douglas 

Hush ye, 

Shall not get ye ! " 

She saw some strange objects moving across the 
level ground in the distance. They greatly puzzled 
her. They did not travel quite like animals, but 
they seemed to have four legs. 

" What are those queer-looking things yonder ? " 
she asked of the sentinel as he drew near. 




" They are Farmer Asher's cattle," said the 
soldier, straining his eyes to discern the outlines of 
the long figures in the shadows. " The good man 
is making merry to-night, and has forgotten to 
bring in his oxen ; lucky 't will be if they do not 
fall a prey to the Black Douglas." 

So sure was he that the objects were cattle, that 
he ceased to watch them longer. 

The woman's eye, however, followed the queer- 
looking cattle for some time, until they seemed to 
disappear under the outer works of the castle. 
Then, feeling quite at ease, she thought she would 
sing again. Spring was in the evening air ; it may 
have made her feel like singing. 

Now the name of the Black Douglas had become 
so terrible to the English that it proved a bugbear 
to the children, who, when they misbehaved, were 
told that the Black Douglas would get them. The 
little ditty I have quoted must have been very 
quieting to good children in those alarming times. 

So the good woman sang cheerily : 

' Hush ye, 
Hush ye, 
Little pet ye ! 
Hush ye, 

Hush ye, 
Do not fret ye ; 
The Black Douglas 
Shall not get ye ! " 

" DO NOT BE SO SURE OF THAT ! " said a husky 
voice close beside her, and a mail-gloved hand fell 
solidly upon her shoulder. She was dreadfully 
frightened, for she knew from the appearance of 
the man he must be the Black Douglas. 

The Scots came leaping over the walls. The 
garrison was merry-making below, and, almost be- 
fore the disarmed revelers had any warning, the 
Black Douglas was in the midst of them. The old 
stronghold was taken, and many of the garrison 
were put to the sword ; but the Black Douglas 
spared the woman and the child, who probably 
never afterward felt quite so sure about the little 
ditty : 

" Hush ye, 
Hush ye, 
Do not fret ye ; 
The Black Douglas 
Shall not get ye ! " 

It is never well to be too sure, you know. 

Douglas had caused his picked men to approach 
the castle by walking on their hands and knees, 
with long black cloaks thrown over their bodies, 
and -their ladders and weapons concealed under 
their cloaks. The men thus presented very nearly 
the appearance of a herd of cattle in the deep 
shadows, and completely deceived the sentinel, 
who was probably thinking more of the music and 
dancing below than of the watchful enemy who had 
been haunting the gloomy woods of Jedburgh. 

The Black Douglas, or "Good James, Lord 

Douglas," as he was called by the Scots, fought, 
as I have already said, with King Robert Bruce at 
Bannockburn. One lovely June day, in the far- 
gone year of 1329, King Robert lay dying. He 
called Douglas to his bedside, and told him that 
it had been one of the dearest wishes of his heart 
to go to the Holy Land and recover Jerusalem from 
the Infidels ; but since he could not go, he wished 
him to embalm his heart after his death, and carry- 
it to the Holy City and deposit it in the Holy 

Douglas had the heart of Bruce embalmed and 
inclosed in a silver case, and wore it on a silver 
chain about his neck. He set out for Jerusalem, 
but resolved first to visit Spain and engage in the 


war waged against the Moorish King of Grenada. 
He fell in Andalusia, in battle. Just before his 
death, he threw the silver casket into the thickest 
of the fight, exclaiming : " Heart of Bruce, I follow 
thee or die ! " 

His dead body was found beside the casket, and 
the heart of Bruce was brought back to Scotland 
and deposited in the ivy-clad Abbey of Melrose. 

Douglas was a real hero, and few things more 
engaging than his exploits were ever told under the 
holly and mistletoe, or in the warm Christmas light 
of the old Scottish Yule-logs. 

1876. | 


21 I 


Bv Noah Brooks. 


Chapter VII. 


The next few days of travel were very wearisome 
and tedious. The road was a dull level, stretching 
along by the banks of the Platte River. Repeated 
rains had made the ground soft, and the teams 
moved with great difficulty, for all of the emigrants 
were loaded heavily. From Council Bluffs to Salt 
Lake City was an uninterrupted wilderness, with 
only here and there a little trading-post. The pro- 
visions consumed on the trip could not be replaced 
until .the Mormon capital was reached; and even 
at that place only flour and meat could be bought 
at reasonable prices. So the supplies of groceries, 
clothing, and other goods needed for the journey 
must last from the Missouri to the Sacramento. 

The weather was warm, and our young emigrants 
found' it very uncomfortable trudging along in the 
heat of the day, with the sun's rays pouring down 
upon them. Hi grumbled a great deal at the dis- 
agreeable things he had to encounter. It was 
disagreeable walking, and disagreeable driving. It 
was particularly disagreeable to be pursued as they 
were by mosquitoes. At night, while they camped 
in the flat valley of the Platte, these pests were 
simply intolerable. 

" Let 's make a smudge, boys," said Barnard, 
one night, when they had in vain tried to eat their 
supper in comfort. Mosquitoes in clouds hovered 
about their heads, filling their eyes, ears and noses, 
and making the air shrill with their music. 

: We might as well be smoked to death as stung 
to death," growled Hi. " I never see anything so 
disagreeable. It's wuss than small-pox." 

So the boys collected some hazel-boughs and 
grass, made a fire on the ground and covered it 
with the green stuff, and soon had a thick cloud of 
stifling smoke about them. The mosquitoes seemed 
to cough a little among themselves, and then they 
gradually withdrew in disgust. 

" That worries the pests," said Mont. " I think 
I see five or six hundred of them on that hazel 
i brush, waiting for the thing to blow over ; then 
they will make another rush at us." 

"Yes," added Hi, "and there's one big he 

■ feller; I see him now, cavorting through the under- 

i brush like mad. He got some smoke in his left 

eye, and he '11 make us smart for it when he comes 

aack. Ugh ! ugh ! but this smoke is wuss than 

' sit-out. I can't stand it no longer ! "—and Hi, 

choking with the effects of the "smudge," seized 
his plate of bread and bacon, and ran. The others 
staid as long as they could, and then left everything 
and retired to a little distance from the fire. The 
mosquitoes were ready for them, and descended 
upon them in millions. 

The boys, finishing their supper as best they 
might, got inside the tent, leaving a circle of 
smoking fire-heaps all about it. Sleep was impos- 
sible that night. They visited some of the neigh- 
boring camps, of which there were a great many ; 
and everybody was fighting mosquitoes. Smolder- 
ing fires were kindled all about, and public feeling 
ran very high against the great nuisance of the 
night. One man remarked that there ought to 
be a mass meeting called and resolutions passed. 
Another suggested that the mosquitoes were the 
original settlers on the place, and that they had 
rights which even a white man was bound to 

During the night, too, the cattle, which were 
chained up as usual, were so frantic with the annoy- 
ance that they were in danger of injuring them- 
selves. They ran to and fro with their short 
allowance of chain, snorted, tore the earth, and 
lashed themselves into a frenzy. It was decided to 
unyoke them and take the chances of finding them 
in the morning. "Tige," as soon as he was at 
liberty, walked deliberately up to one of the smudge 
fires, where he turned his tail toward it and stood 
contentedly chewing his cud. 

" Sagacious Tige," said Mont, " I believe I will 
follow your example." 

Tige appreciated this compliment, apparently, 
for he lay down, having tested the value of smoke 
as a shield against mosquitoes. Mont rolled him- 
self in his blanket and lay down by another fire, 
and managed to sleep almost as well as Tige. The 
others did the same, though it was hard work to 
keep up the fires and find sleep also. Arthur woke 
up long before daybreak, with the insects buzzing 
and stinging about his face. He jumped up in 
sheer desperation and ran wildly out on the level 
road, half-a-mile or more, without stopping. He 
could hear the bodies of the mosquitoes striking 
on his hat as he fled. Then he turned and ran 
back again, leaving a long train of the pests behind 
him. But they caught up with him by the time he 
had reached the camp. In despair, he covered his 
head with a blanket and sat down by a tree trunk 
to sleep again, having first stirred up a good 




smudge for Tige, who looked on complacently at 
this provision for his comfort. Arthur stooped and 
brushed a few mosquitoes from Tige's black muzzle, 
and the steer looked up at him intelligently, as if 
to say, " Hard lines, these, my boy." 

" Arouse ye ! arouse ye ! my merry Swiss boys ! " 
sung Mont, bright and early next morning, while 
the rest of the party were yet struggling with mos- 
quitoes in their dreams. "We have a long drive 
to the crossing of Loup Fork, to-day ; and if we 
don't get there in good season, we shall have to 
wait a whole day to get a chance on the ferry." 

The boys turned out of their various lairs with 
many expressions of discomfort. They had had a 
tiresome day's travel and almost no rest at all. 
The air was now moist and warm, with the promise 
of another hot day. They were smarting with 
mosquito bites, and were generally uncomfortable. 

"Well, I allow this is reely disagreeable," said 
Hi, half sitting up, clasping his hands across his 
knees and looking excessively miserable. 

The picture of Hi, squatted there forlornly, with 
his hat crumpled over his head, his face blotched 
with bites, and his eyes heavy with sleep, was too 
funny for Barnard, who laughed outright and said : 

" Well, I declare, Hi, but you do look like the 
very last rose of summer that ever was ! " 

" See here, Barney Crogan ! " said Hi, angrily, 
" I don't want none of your sass. And I jest give 
you notice of that." 

" What are you going to do about it?" sharply 
replied -Barnard, who felt his anger rising. " You 
sit there like a bump on a log, saying that things 
are 'disagreeable,' and I don't see that that helps 

"Well, I don't want anybody's chin about it, — 
that 's what I don't want. And I allow I aint agoin' 
to stand no nonsense from a feller that don't take 
his regular spell at drivin'." 

" What do you mean ? " said Barnard, advancing 
threateningly toward Hi, who, by this time, had 
risen to his feet and stood with his blanket still 
clinging about him. "What do you mean? If 
you mean to say that I don't do my share of work, 
I '11 " 

"Oh, stop! stop! boys," interposed Mont. 
" There 's really no use of quarreling. I suppose 
we all feel cross and unhappy, after such a miser- 
able night. I 'm sure I do. But we need" n't 

"Who's quarrelin', I'd like to know. I aint. 
It's that stuck-up " 

But before he had time to finish his sentence, 
Mont had playfully put his hand on Hi's mouth, 
saying : 

" Well, I know I am a stuck-up Boston chap, 
but I '11 try to get over it." 

Barnard was secretly amused at this ingenious 
turn, but he was too angry to say anything, and he 
turned his attention to the cattle. 

Tom and Johnny, the latter somewhat alarmed 
at the warlike appearance of things in camp, scoured 
the underbrush for dry wood for their breakfast 

" If Barney had sassed me like that," commented 
Tom, when out of earshot of his elders, " I would 
have punched his head for him." 

" Appears to me that Hi had no cause to fire up 
so — Barney did n't mean anything ; and I'm sure 
Hi did look queer-like, sitting there with his hat 
mussed and his head all swelled up." 

" I '11 swell your head for ye, yer ongrateful little 
weasel. You 're always takin' Crogan's side " — and 
Tom dealt him a blow behind the ear. Johnny 
tumbled over a clump of brush, crying, not so 
much with pain as with anger and mortification. 
Tom only muttered, " Yer can't sass me, ye know." 

Loaded with their fuel, they went back to the 
camp, where Arthur, with a lowering brow, was 
busy over the fire, making ready for breakfast. 

" What 's the matter with you f" he asked with 
amazement and some asperity, as he noticed the 
tears on Johnny's face. 

" I punched his head for sass," said Tom, de- 

Without a word, Arthur banged Tom over the 
head with the sheet-iron stove-cover, which he hap- 
pened to have in his hand. Tom felt the indig- 
nity, for his face was covered with soot and his eyes 
smarted. But, before he could get at Arthur, who 
stood by the stove, his eyes sparkling, and his lithe 
young form swelling with anger, Mont had seized 
Tom and drawn him away. Johnny threw himself 
on Arty and entreated him not to fight on his 
account, meanwhile protesting that it was nothing 
at all. 

Luckily, the other late combatants were not at 
hand, and Mont, helping Tom to remove the soot 
from his face and hair, soothed his angry feelings 
and asked him to promise to leave off quarreling. 

" You should n't have struck little Johnny ; you 
know that, Tom. He is a little chap, much smaller 
than you, and it was a cowardly thing for you to 
knock him over." 

"But that's no reason why Art should whack 
me over the snoot with a griddle," answered the 

"Certainly not, certainly not ; but he did that 
in a moment of passion. I dare say he is sorry for 
it by this time. If he is not, I shall be sorry for 
Arty ; he usually means to do what is right. It 
was wrong for him to strike you ; there 's no doubt 
about that. But you will forgive him, if he asks 
you ? " 

i8 7 6.] 



" I allow he wont ask," said Tom, with great 

"But if he does?" 

" All right, let him come on. I 'm ready for 
him, anyway." 

It was not a merry party which sat down to 
breakfast together that morning. Mont found it 
difficult to keep up an animated conversation. Hi 
had only one word, and that was "disagreeable." 
Perhaps they should not have eaten much break- 
fast, as the usual result of bad feelings is to destroy 
one's appetite. On the plains this rule does not 

always hold good. I am bound to say that they 
ate very heartily, for they had had almost no sup- 
per on the night before. 

When the cattle were yoked up and the caravan 
was ready to move, Mont picked up the whip and 
said, with a cheery look at the others : 

" Let me drive to-day." 

" Yer can't," said Hi, stiffly, but not unkindly. 

"Let me try," and Mont moved off with the 
team as steadily as if he had driven oxen all his 
life. He had watched Hi and Barnard, and had 
practiced some with the cattle when they were 

turned out at noon, yoked together, for their short 
rest. Molly, the skittish little cow, would occa- 
sionally " gee," or bolt out of the track, which was 
a great source of annoyance even to Hi, for Molly 
was on the " off" side, and it was sometimes neces- 
sary to run around the head of the cattle to get the 
mischievous animal back into the track again. But 
Mont got on capitally ; he walked by the side of 
the docile and knowing Tige, who seemed able to 
keep all the rest of the team in good spirits. Tige 
was fond of potatoes, sugar, bread, and inany other 
luxuries usually denied to cattle ; and Mont kept 
on good terms with the queer little steer by carry- 
ing the odds and ends of his own rations in his 
pocket for Tige. 

But even Tige's good-nature, combined with that 
of Mont, could not cheer up the rest of the party. 
Little Johnny, perched on old Jim's back, paced 
along beside the wagon, never galloping off on 
brief excursions by the roadside, as he usually did 
when allowed to ride the horse. Hi trudged along 
sulkily behind ; Arthur walked on ahead to Loup 
Fork ferry ; and Barney, contrary to rules and 
usage, climbed into the wagon, where, on top of 
the load and close against the wagon-bows, he went 
to sleep. 

Before noon they reached the ferry, so long 
looked for and talked about. The Loup is one of 
the forks of the North Platte, and in those days it 
was crossed by a rope-ferry, which some enter- 
prising man had put in there. A long scow, large 
enough to take on two wagons, with the usual 
number of cattle, slid across the stream, attached 
by slings and pulleys to a rope tightly stretched 
from shore to shore. The current was swift, and, 
by keeping the scow partly headed up stream, the 
pressure from above forced the unwieldy craft 

Here were numerous teams waiting their chance 
to cross, each being numbered in turn. Some of 
them had waited two days for their turn to come ; 
but to-day their number had been reduced by the 
departure of several who had gone to a place farther 
up the Fork, where it was reported that a ford had 
been found. Our party ascertained that they could 
cross by sundown ; so they unhitched their cattle 
and waited, having first paid the ten dollars for fer- 
riage which the avaricious ferry-keeper demanded 
for each team. 

The young fellows took this opportunity to rest. 
Barnard sat lazily on the bank, angling for catfish. 
Hi climbed into the wagon and went to sleep. 
Mont chatted with the ferry-master, who sat in the 
door-way of his log hut and surveyed the busy 
scene below him with the air of a wealthy pro- 

" I should suppose that you would get the gold- 




fever, seeing so many people pressing on to the 
mines," said Mont. 

The ferryman chuckled, and, waving his pipe 
toward the rude ferry, said : 

" Thar's my gold mine. Ten dollars a pop." 

"Yes, that's so. I suppose you are making a 
mint of money." 

" Not so drcffle much, not so dreffle much," the 
man replied, uneasily. "Ye see, repa'rs and w'ar 
and t'ar are mighty bindin' on a man, cl'ar out 
hyar on the plains. Why, I hev to go cl'ar to 
K'arney for every scrap of anything." 

" But your receipts must be enormous. Let me 
see, you can make at least twelve trips a day ; you 
get, say twenty dollars at each trip, sometimes 
more, and that is two hundred and forty dollars 
a day ! " 

" Powerful smart on figgers, you be, young fel- 
ler," said the man, and he laughed with a cunning 
leer in his eye at Mont. 

Meanwhile, Tom leaned over the slight fence 
with which the ferryman had inclosed his " gar- 
ding," as he called it. He coveted the young 
onions just beginning to show their bulbs half out 
of the warm soil ; and he meditated on the scarcity 
of potatoes which their appetites were making in 
their own stores. Arthur came up and laid his 
hand on Tom's shoulder, and looked over too. 

" Looks something like home, don't it, Tom ? " 

" Yes," replied Tom. " I was just a-thinkin' 
how dad never would plant garden truck. Always 
wheat, wheat, wheat. Blast the wheat, when a 
feller has to go to the neighbors for garden sass." 

"But, then, we sometimes get "sass' without 
going for it," said Arty, with a smile. 

Tom's face darkened at this allusion to the diffi- 
culties of the morning ; but Arty continued : 

" I am real sorry, Tom, that I struck you as I 
did. It was awful mean, and I did n't intend it." 

" Yes, you did. How else could you done it ?" 

"Well, Tom, it's a hard case to explain. My^ 
hand just flew up before I knew what I was about. 
The first thing I knew I had hit you. Come now. 
I tell you I am sorry, and I want to make up." 

"All right," grumbled Tom. 

" You forgive me, honor bright? Well, give us 
your hand." 

Tom looked around awkwardly at Arthur, for he 
had kept his eyes fixed on the onion-bed during 
this brief dialogue. He glanced into Arthur's 
pleasant, boyish face, and said frankly : 

" Quits ! we '11 call it square, and there 's my fist 
on it." 

As the sun began to drop behind the horizon, 
the turn for our young party to cross came at last. 
They had waited nearly ten hours, and were right 
glad when they were able to see that the way across 

was clear for them. The scow could not reach the 
farther shore, as there was a long shallow all along 
that side. So the clumsy craft was run across until 
it grounded ; then a wooden flap, or apron, was let 
down, and the teams were driven out into the water, 
wading the rest of the way. It was a poor way of 
crossing a stream, but it was the best thing prac- 
ticable then and there. 

With much hallooing, shouting, and. running 
hither and thither, the cattle were driven into the 
scow. The current was swift and the channel deep ; 
the crossing looked perilous, especially when the 
cattle were restive. Molly was particularly trouble- 
some, and Hi went around on that side to quiet 
her. She would not be quieted, and, with one 
vicious toss of her horns, she lifted Hi by his leather 
belt. In another moment he was overboard, strug- 
gling in the stream. 

No one else was on that side — the upper one — of 
the boat ; but Barney saw the accident, and ex- 
claiming, "He can't swim ! he can't swim ! " rushed 
around to the rear of the craft, pulling off his clothes 
as he ran. 

All was confusion, the scow being crowded with 
men, cattle and teams. The frail craft quivered in 
the tide, while the bewildered boatmen were puzzled 
what to do. Diving under the rear wagon, Barney 
reached the gunwale of the boat just in time to see 
Hi's hands clutching ineffectually at the edge. He 
made a lunge and seized one hand as it disappeared, 
and, falling on his knees, reached over and grabbed 
Hi's shoulders. 

"Never mind, Barney boy, I'm on bottom," 
said Hi. Just then he stood on his feet, and the 
boat grounded on the shoal. 

Barnard drew a long sigh of relief, and looked 
for an instant straight down into Hi's blue eyes. 
They were friends again. 

Hi was helped on board, none the worse for his 
unexpected ducking. They drove off the scow, 
waded across the shoal, and struggled up the bank 
with much turmoil and bother. They camped near 
the river, surrounded by a cordon of smudge-fires. 
The mosquitoes troubled them very much ; but, 
notwithstanding that, they passed the evening very 
cheerily. Tom observed, with much inward sur- 
prise, that Hi had exchanged his wet clothes for a 
spare suit of Barney's. 

And yet Hi had clothes enough of his own ! 

Chapter VIII. 


FOR many days after leaving Columbus, as the 
ferryman facetiously called his log-house, our emi- 
grants traveled with an immense company. One 
train alone had nearly two hundred head of cattle, 






cither in yoke or loose, and fifteen wagons. It was 
a brave sight to see this long caravan winding along 
the track, with its white-covered wagons gleaming 
in the sun, and the animals walking along behind 
in the most orderly manner. Many of the men were 
on horseback, and they skirmished to the rear, to 
the front, or by the flanks of the train as it moved. 
Arthur declared that it looked like a traveling circus 
or menagerie, a comparison which was made more 
striking by the dress of the emigrants. They wore 
all sorts of queer garments, which they had picked 
up from abandoned camps. In those days of the 
gold rush, people were reckless about waste, and 
the trail was strewn, in many places, with valuable 
goods, thrown away by emigrants who were in such 
haste to get on that they were continually over- 
hauling their loads to see what they could leave 
behind to lighten them. 

These things were picked up by those who came 
after, only to be again thrown out for others to find 
and reject. One of the emigrants, attached to this 
long Missouri train, wore a woman's straw bonnet, 
of the Shaker pattern, with a large green cape. 
Another was decorated with a richly embroidered 
hunting-frock, of Pawnee make ; and he wore a 
black silk " stove-pipe " hat, surmounted with a tall 
eagle-plume. Some of the women of this company 
rode well, and one little girl, riding a fiery Texan 
pony, seated astride, excited much admiration by 
her skillful management of her steed. A party of 
Pawnees, who had lodges, or "tepees," near by, 
grouped themselves on a little knoll and gazed on 
•this passing show with great solemnity. 

At camping-time, some of these red children of 
the desert came to the tent of our young emigrants 
begging and selling moccasins. The Pawnee moc- 
casin is a plain, inartistic affair, shaped almost ex- 
actly like the foot of a stocking, with one seam 
running from the heel downward and lengthwise 
through the sole and up to the instep over the toe. 
But as these were the first of " wild Indian " manu- 
facture that the boys had ever seen, each was 
eager to secure at least one pair at eighteen cents 

These Indians were dressed in buckskin hunting- 
shirts and leggings, were bare-headed, and wore a 
coarse blanket slung about them. One of them 
produced from a' dirty buckskin pouch a piece of 
paper which he impressively submitted to Mont, 
as the apparent leader of the party, saying as he 
did so, " Heap good Indian me ! " The paper read 
as follows : 

This Indian, Mekonec, otherwise known as The-Man-that-Champs- 
.vilh-his-Teeth, wants a recommendation. I give it with pleasure. 
He is a lying, thieving, vagabond Pawnee. He will steal the tires 
offof yourwagoji-whcels and the buttons from your trousers. Watch 
him. (Signed) Jake Dawson, 

And th'rteen others of the Franklin Grove Company. 

" Heap good Indian me," said The-Man-that- 
Champs-with-his-Teeth, when the boys had exam- 
ined his document. 

■'Oh, yes," said Hi, " I allow you are the only 
good Indian that aint dead yet." 

The-Man-that-Champs-with-his-Teeth assented 
with a grunt of approval, folded up his " recom- 
mendation " and put it carefully away, as a very 
precious thing. While he was walking softly about 
the camp, as if looking for something to steal, an- 
other of the tribe dived into the bosom of his hunt- 
ing shirt and extracted a lump of dough. Holding 
it out to Arthur, who was getting ready the supper, 
he made signs toward the stove and said, " Cook 
him ? " 

Arthur assented, but Barnard cried, " No, no, 
Arthur ! Don't let that rascal's dough go into our 
oven. He has stolen it somewhere, and has car- 
ried it about in his dirty clothes, nobody knows 
how long." 

" 1 '11 let him cook it on top of the stove then," 
said Arthur; and the Pawnee put his cake on the 
outside of the camp-stove, whete Arthur covered it 
with a tin dish. The Indian, with an expression 
of intense satisfaction, squatted by the hot stove, 
and never took his eyes off of it until his dough 
was bread and delivered, blazing hot, into his hand. 

The Indians carried bows and arrows, and one 
had a battered army-musket, which he declared, 
proudly, was " heap good — kill buffalo six mile 
off." This piece of brag tickled Hi so much that 
the Indian seized that opportunity to beg powder, 
shot or lead. These were not given him ; and he 
renewed his application for "whisk" (whisky) or 
"sugee" (sugar), both of which the Indians par- 
ticularly covet. These persistent beggars got very 
little for their trouble, Arthur having vainly inter- 
ceded in behalf of The-Man-that-Champs-witb-his- 
Teeth, who offered to give "heap moccasin" for 
a red silk handkerchief of Barnard's which he very 
much desired. 

"Where you from?" asked the Indian, as if 
attracted by Arthur's good-natured and pleasant 

" From Richardson, Lee County, Illinois," said 
Arthur. "You know, it is the land of the prairie, 
one of the great States that belong to your Great 
Father and mine. The people in that land are 
many ; they are like the leaves on the trees, they 
are so many. They are going to the land of the 
setting sun, where the gold shines in the waters of 
the Sacramento. The pale-faces are covering the 
continent. They will leave no room for the red 
man. the deer and the buffalo. Are you not sorry 
for this ? " 

"Whisk," said the red man, stolidly. 

"A good oration, Arty! " laughed Mont. '"But 




Mr. Man-that-Champs-with-his-Teeth don't under- 
stand it. He understands 'whisk' and 'sugee,' 
and he don't care for the pale-faces as long as he 
gets these. Look out ! there goes the cover of 
your camp kettle ! " 

Arthur turned just in time to see the Indian who 
was squatted by the stove calmly fold his arms over 
a suspicious bunch in his blanket. Mont stalked 
over, pulled the blanket from the Indian's unresist- 
ing arm, and the iron cover rolled out upon the 
ground. The copper-colored rascal smiled cun- 
ningly, as one should say, " I missed it that time, 
but never mind. It's a good joke on me."' After 
that the boys mounted guard at night, watch and 
watch, as they had been told long before that it 
would be necessary to do while passing through the 
Indian country. 

Next to "wild" Indians, the boys longed for a 
sight of the buffalo on his native plain. This came 
in due time. They had passed up the long tongue 
of land which lies between Loup Fork and the 
Platte, and had reached a small stream making in 
from the north and known as Wood River. Cross- 
ing this, they bore off to the north-west, with the 
little river on their right. 

One hot afternoon, while the party were wearily 
dragging themselves along, Barnard went ahead 
with the horse to spy out a good camping-place. 
Arthur walked on in advance of the team in the 
dusty road, half asleep, and feeling as if he would 
be happy if he could fall down in the dust and take 
a long nap. It was very tiresome, this continual 
tramp, tramp, tramp, with each day's journey 
making almost no difference in their advance. 
Arthur grumbled to himself, and scarcely heard 
the boyish talk of Johnny, who trudged along with 
him. Once in a while he felt himself dropping to 
sleep as he walked. His heavy eyes closed; he lost 
sight of the yellow wagon-track, the dusty grass, 
and the earth which seemed to reel ; the blinding 
glare of the sun was gone for an instant, and he 
stumbled on as in a dream. Then he nearly fell 
over forward, and he knew that he had slept by the 
painful start of awaking. He looked dreamily at 
the rough soil by the side of the trail, dimly long- 
ing to lie down and sleep, sleep, sleep. Johnny 
said : " Oh my ! Arty ! what big black cattle ! " 

Arty looked languidly across the'river, which was 
now only a narrow, woody creek. In an instant 
his sleepiness was gone. 

"Buffaloes! buffaloes!" he shouted, and, very 
wide awake indeed, ran back to the wagon. He 
was in a fever of excitement, and the news he 
brought set his comrades into commotion. Every- 
body rushed for his favorite firearm, Tom extract- 
ing his long-unused revolver from the wagon, 
where it lay unloaded. 

"Now, boys, we can't all go over the creek," 
said Hi. "You, Tom, stay here with the team. 
Mont, Arty and I will go over and see if we can 
knock over a brace of them buffaloes." 

Tom handled his revolver with a very bad grace, 
but was mollified when Johnny said he would stay, 
and they might see the buffaloes cross over and 
break through the woods below. The banks of the 
creek were filled with a thick growth of box-elders, 
but through some of the gaps they could see five 
buffaloes quietly feeding in a V-shaped meadow 
formed by the junction of two small branches of 
Wood River. 

" We must get above them," said Hi, as they 
were reconnoitering, " or they will make off by 
that open place. If we take 'em in the rear they 
can't mizzle so easy-like." 

Mont thought it unsafe to go to the upper part 
of the meadow, because the wind came from that 
direction. " And they are very sensitive to any 
unusual odor in the air," added Arthur. " They 
can smell a man two miles oft", when they are to the 
leeward." The boy was trembling with excitement 
at the sight of this large game, but he remembered 
his natural history for all that. Even as he spoke 
one of the feeding buffaloes lifted his large shaggy 
head and sniffed suspiciously to the windward. 

The three young fellows separated, Arthur going 
down the creek, Hi up toward the open, and Mont 
crossing in the middle of the V, directly opposite 
where the animals were feeding. They were huge 
fellows, ponderously moving about and nibbling 
the short, tender grass. Their humped shoulders 
were covered with dark, shaggy hair, and their 
long, beard-like dewlaps nearly swept the ground 
as they bent their heads to graze. They were not 
in very good condition, apparently, and the hide 
of one of them was clouded with a dingy, yellowish 
tinge. "Just like our old sleigh-robe," secretly 
commented Arthur to himself, as he lay, breathless, 
on the further side of the creek, waiting for a signal 
from Hi. 

Suddenly, to his amazement, a shot burst out 
from the brush on the farther side of the meadow, 
and, as the alarmed animals dashed away like cats, 
another report banged out from the same spot. The 
buffaloes, scattering in different directions, were 
almost immediately out of reach. Two pitched 
down into the creek near where they were feeding, 
but on the other side, and so disappeared in the 
woods beyond. One broke through the timber 
just below where Arthur was posted, scrambled 
across the gully, and, with incredible agility, crashed 
through into the road near the wagon, where Tom 
gallantly, but ineffectually, assaulted him with his 
" pepper-box" revolver as he galloped away. The 
fourth raced up the V-shaped meadow, receiving a 

.8 7 6.J 



shot from Mont's musket and from Hi's rifle in his 
rapid flight. The fifth made as if he would plunge 
down into the creek at the fool of the meadow, but, 
baulked by something, turned and raced up the 
side of the triangle next the road, heading directly 
for Arthur, who was concealed behind a bush. 
"Now or never," said the boy, with his heart stand- 
ing still and his eye glancing along the sights of 
his rifle. 

The buffalo was coming directly toward him, 
his head down and his enormous feet pounding 

Arthur looked on with heart beating and said: 
•' I fired at him, too." 

All this took place in a very few minutes. The 
firing in all directions was almost simultaneous. 
Mont and Hi came running up, chagrined at their 
ill luck, but excited by the sight of this first buffalo. 

••Who shot him?" eagerly cried Hi, who had 
not seen what happened below him. 

" Well, I allow that I 'm the fortnit individooal," 
said the stranger. "Leastways, thar 's my mark," 
and he inserted his finger into a smooth round hole 


the earth. Arthur fired, and the buffalo swerved 
sharply to the right ; at the same instant another 
shot came from the opposite side of the meadow. 
The buffalo ambled on for a few paces, fell on his 
knees, dug his horns madly into the ground, rolled 
over on his side and was still. 

As Arthur, scarcely believing his eyes, ran out 
into the open, a tall young fellow, carrying a dou- 
ble-barreled shot gun, rushed up from the other 
side, and, drawing his hunting-knife, cut the ani- 
mal's throat. There was no need. The great 
creature was dead. 

" My fust buffalo," said the stranger, drawing 
himself up proudly. 

in the center of the animal's forehead, directly be- 
tween and a little above the eyes. 

" That 's just where I aimed," said Arthur, with 
some excitement. 

"No, little chap," said the stranger, supercili- 
ously, "I seen you shoot, and your ball must 'a 
gone clean over him. Mine 's a slug. No ornery 
rifle ball 's goin' to kill a critter like this," and he 
gave the dead monster a touch with his boot. 

" Let's look at that ball," said Mont, curiously, 

as the emigrant handled one of the clumsy slugs 

, which had been fitted for the big bore of his gun. 

Taking it in his hand and glancing at the wound 

in the head of the buffalo, he stooped to put it into 




the wound. The skull was pierced with a sharply 
defined hole. The stranger's slug rested in the 
edge of it like' a ball in a cup. 

"That ball don't go into that hole, stranger." 
said Mont. " The mate of it never went in there. 
Give me a ball, Arty." And Mont, taking one of 
Arty's rifle-balls, slipped it in at the wound ; it 
dropped inside with difficulty and was gone. 

"It's a clear case, Cap," said Hi. "You may 
as well give it up. That buffalo belongs to our 
camp, and Arty 's the boy that fetched him — you 
bet ye." 

" Well," said the stranger, discontentedly," thar 's 
no need o' jawin' about it. I allow thar 's meat 
enough for all hands. I Ml pitch in and help dress 
the critter, anyhow," and he stripped for work. 

There was certainly no need of disputing over 
the dead buffalo. It was Arthur's game, however, 
clearly enough. He received the congratulations 
of his friends with natural elation, but with due 
modesty. He crossed the creek again for knives to 
help prepare the buffalo meat for immediate use. 
Barnard had come tearing back down the road at 
the sound of fire-arms, and now stood waiting with, 
"What luck? what luck?" as Arty waded the 
creek, as yet unconscious of his having been up to 
his waist in the stream a few minutes before. 

Arty told his story with some suppressed excite- 
ment, but without any self-glorification. The water 

fairly stood in Barnard's joyful eyes as he clapped 
his young brother on the back and said, " Good for 
you, my old pard." You see Barnard was begin- 
ning to catch the slang of the plains. 

They camped right there and then. The buffalo 
was dressed and the choice parts cut off and cooled 
in the air, for the sun was now low and night com- 
ing on. The stranger's comrades, camped on the 
north side of Wood River, came over and helped 
the party of amateur butchers, and earned their 
share of fresh meat, which was all they could carry 
away and take care of. This was a luxury in the 
camp. The emigrants had had almost no fresh 
meat since leaving the Missouri River. Small 
game was scarce, and only a few birds, shot at rare 
intervals, had given variety to their daily fare. 

The boys stood expectantly around the camp- 
stove as the operation of frying buffalo steaks went 
on under the superintendence of Mont and Arthur. 
Sniffing the delicious odor of the supper which had 
been so unexpectedly given them, Barnard said, 
" Obliged to you, Arty, for this fresh beef. You 
know I hate bacon." 

"And the best of it is," added little Johnny, 
" there 's enough of it to go round." 

"Which is more than some chaps can say of 
their pie," said Barnard. 

Arty raised his hot face from the frying-pan and 

(To be continued.) 


By Lucy Larcom. 

" I PITY the poor little country boy, 

Away on his lonely farm ! 
The holidays bring him no elegant toy ; 
He has no money, there is no shop ; 
Even Christmas morning his work does n't stop : 
He has cows to milk, — he has wood to chop, 

And to carry in on his arm." 

Did you hear that, Fred, as you came through 
the gate, , 

With your milk-pail full to the brim ? 
No envy hid under your curly brown pate, — 

You were watching a star in the morning sky, 
And a star seemed shining out of your eye ; 
Your thoughts were glad, you could n't tell why ; 
But they were not of toys, or of him. 

Yet the city boy said what he kindly meant, 

Walking on by his mother's side, 
With his eyes on the toy-shop windows bent, 
Wishing for all that his eyes could see ; 
Longing and looking and teasing went he, 
Nor dreamed that a single pleasure could be 
Afar in your woodlands wide. 

i8 7 6.] 



You ate your breakfast that morning, Fred, 

As a country boy should eat ; 
Then you jumped with your father upon the sled, 
And were off to the hills for a load of wood ; 
Quiet and patient the oxen stood, 
And the snowy world looked cheerful and good, 

While you stamped to warm your feet. 

Then your father told you to take a run ; 

And you started away up the hill ; 
You were all alone, but it was such fun ! 
The larch and the pine-tree seemed racing past 
Instead of yourself, you went so fast ; 
But, rosy and out of breath, at last 

You stood in the sunshine still. 

And all of a sudden there came the thought. — 

While a brown leaf toward you whirled. 
And a chickadee sang, as if they brought 
Something they meant on purpose for you. 
As if the trees to delight you grew, 
As if the sky for your sake was blue, — 
"It is such a beautiful world ! " 

The graceful way that the spruce-trees had 

Of holding their soft, white load, 
You saw and admired ; and your heart was glad, 
As you laid on the trunk of a beech your hand, 

And beheld the wonderful mountains stand 
In a chain of crystal, clear and grand, 
At the end of the widening road. 

Oh, Fred ! without knowing, you held a gift 

That a mine of gold could not buy : 
Something the soul of a man to lift 
From the tiresome earth, and to make him see 
How beautiful common things can be, — 
A glimpse of heaven in a wayside tree, — 
The gift of an artist's eye ! 

What need had you of money, my boy, 

Or the presents money can bring, 
When every breath was a breath of joy ? 
You owned the whole world, with its hills and trees, 
The sun, and the clouds, and the bracing breeze, 
And your hands to work with ; having these,- 

You were richer than any king. 

When the dusk drew on, by the warm hearth fire, 

You needed nobody's pity ; 
But you said, as the soft flames mounted higher, 
And the eye and cheek of your mother grew 

While she smiled and talked in the lovely light — 
A picture of pictures, to your sight, — 
" I am sorry for boys in the city ! " 






(A Sto?y of Gcrmtui Life.) 

By Mrs. W. S. Phillips. 

"Where in the world can Bijou be?" asked 
Mrs. Dr. Kruger of her little maid Lisa, as she 
came into the room to set the tea-table. " I have 
not seen him this whole afternoon." 

" Bijou ! " said Lisa, rattling the blue china cups. 
"I think the little rascal must be out in the gar- 

" Lisa, 
I do not 

I have told you over and over again that 
like to hear my dog called a rascal — a 
beautiful spaniel like that ! — and you know he 
ought not to be left long out of doors in winter." 

" You told me to take him there, for a little 
walk, Mrs. Kruger; and as I had to come in soon 
myself, f.nd as he was so pleased to run about, I 
left him, and " 

" That was nearly two hours ago, Lisa, and the 
snow is on the ground. Such a delicate little creat- 
ure, petted and cared for as he is, may take a vio- 
lent cold ; it may kill him. Oh, Lisa ! do go down 
at once." 

" I will go bring him in" — and Lisa left the room. 

Mrs. Kruger shook her head at the thought of 
the carelessness of her usually attentive little maid. 

Poor Bijou ! It was a bitter cold day, and the 
clock in the hall had just struck five ; at half-past 
five Dr. Kruger would return from his visits to his 
city patients. He was a good, kind doctor, whom 
everybody loved ; indeed some of the children said 
they liked to be sick, now and then, because it 
was so pleasant to have Dr. Kruger come to see 
them. Soon after six o'clock, the Doctor's nephew, 
Lieutenant Sporenberg, would make his appear- 
ance, and spend the evening with them. The Doc- 
tor had brought Bijou home as a birthday present 
to his wife, the year before ; and as there were no 
children in the house, the little creature had become 
a very great pet with them both, and the Lieutenant 
never came without a sugar-plum, or some other 
nice thing, in his pocket for Bijou. 

As Lisa did not return soon, Mrs. Kruger began 
to be rather uneasy. She went to the window, but 
it was too dark to see anything in the garden. 
Suddenly the girl burst into the room, wringing 
her hands, and, throwing herself on a chair by the 
door, began to wipe her eyes with her apron, ex- 
claiming through her sobs : 

" Oh, it is too dreadful ! it is too dreadful !" 

" What is the matter, Lisa? Do tell me what is 
the matter ? " 

Lisa cried the more. 

" Lisa ! you must tell me what is the matter. I 
will know it. Is Bijou frozen to death ? " 

''No, no! it is not that. Oh! oh! not frozen; 
but those dreadful men." 

•' What men? What dreadful men ? " 

'■ They have stolen him ! " 

" But, Lisa, how could any one dare ?" 

" All I know is that Bijou is not there, and there 
are marks of men's boots in the snow on top of the 
wall, and on the ground, too. They have stolen 
him — the dear dog ; and — oh ! oh ! oh ! — I am 
afraid they will kill him." 

" Kill my Bijou ! " cried Mrs. Kruger, struck 
with horror at the idea; "my beautiful Bijou!" 
And mistress and maid sobbed in concert. 

"What will the Doctor say?" asked Mrs. Kru- 
ger, as the clock struck six. " He is half an hour 
late ; but he will soon be here. How can I tell 
him Bijou is gone? He always said I must 
never allow him to be long in the snow. Oh, if 
you only had staid with him, and held him by his 
ribbon ! " 

Poor Lisa could only cry the harder. "Yes," 
said she, at last, sobbing between almost every 
word, " I know it is all my fault; and misfortunes 
never come singly, and I suppose I shall be turned 
away for this, and nobody else will take me. I 
feel dreadfully, indeed I do, Mrs. Kruger. If he 
is not found I — 1 '11 just go to the river and drown 
myself! " 

Mrs. Kruger, however, soon dissuaded Lisa from 
these dreadful intentions, and then in came the 

How grieved and how angry he was ! You would 
have thought Bijou was his own child. With de- 
spair in his face, he ran down to the garden to make 
another search for Bijou, and to examine the foot- 
prints in the snow, of which Lisa had spoken. 

When the Lieutenant appeared, he, too, was 
greeted with the sad news, and though his heart 
was not quite broken, he looked sad enough as he 
let the lump of sugar he had in his pocket for the 
little dog, sink into his cup of tea. 

They could scarcely eat anything; they could 
talk of nothing but Bijou ; how pretty he had been, 
and how intelligent ; no means must be left untried 
to recover him, and to punish the thief. The Lieu- 
tenant said he would send a whole company o'f 
soldiers out the next morning to search the town ; 
the lady proposed to go herself to all the police 

i8 7 6.] 



stations ; the Doctor composed the following ad- 
vertisement : 

Stolen ! — Ten thalers reward, for the apprehension of the thief, 
or the recovery of a small spaniel dog, one year and three months 

old, supposed to be stolen from No. 14 Street, answering to the 

name of Bijou. Long black hair, yellow breast and paws, and a 
yellow spot over each eye. Had on, when last seen, a red morocco 
collar with a silver clasp. 

It is not to be supposed that either Mrs. Kruger 
or Lisa had any sleep that night. 

Part II. 

The birthday ! Nobody had forgotten poor 
Bijou ; but time softens all sorrows, and the family 
were now able to talk occasionally of something 
else. In the evening, Dr. Kruger brought some 
gifts for his wife, and as she thanked him she began 
to shed tears. 

"Do you remember," asked she, "how, this 
time last year, you brought me home poor little 
Bijou? What a darling puppy he was then ! John 
stood just outside the door with him in his arms, 
and I went out and " 

"Well," said the Doctor, "there is no use in 
grieving about the past. Let us look — who knows ? 
— perhaps John may be there now." And, sure 
enough, just outside the door stood John, holding 
a little black dog by a red ribbon. 

"Bijou ! " and she ran to the dog, who, fright- 
ened, only shrank from her and whined. 

"Yes, very like him, but not Bijou. Still he is 
nice, and I am real thankful for your kindness, dear 
Karl. And, Karl," added Mrs. Kruger, " it is a 
little awkward, I am afraid, but come now and see 
the gift I have for you." And going into another 
room, she re-appeared, holding in her arms a dog 
as much like the one on the floor as possible, and 
wearing a red morocco collar, to which was fastened 
a red ribbon. 

" Bijou ! " exclaimed the Doctor eagerly. 

" No, I am sorry to say, not the real Bijou ; but 
is n't he like him ? You see, I wished to give you 
the same pleasure that you have given me, and now 
we have two dogs." 

" They are neither of them very young puppies, 
and will not be a great deal of trouble. I suppose 
we can keep both. I would not like to part with 
anything that was your gift ? " 

"Nor would I with yours." 

So the two little spaniels were put on the sofa, 
each tied to one end by his red ribbon, where, just 
out of each other's reach, they sat whining, and 
winking at the lights. 

Lisa now entered. She held the end of her long 
apron up to her face, and seemed to be carrying 
something heavy. She made a sort of curtsey, and 

turned to her employers, very red in the face, and 
somewhat confused in manner. 

" Ma'am and Doctor, don't, please, be angry at 
me that the dear darling Bijou was stolen — the little 
rascal — and killed, perhaps, by the horrid men ; 
only I ought not, I know, to call him rascal. It 
was all my fault, and I know what my duty is, and 
I try to do it, and any one would say this is my 
duty (here a yellow leg thrust from her apron 
obliged her to bring her speech to a rapid close), 
and I could not afford to pay three thalers, which 
is the price of a real spaniel, so I bought you both 
this dog. He is black, with yellow feet." And 
she let the animal in question spring to the floor — 
an ugly, awkward cur, big and bony, who evidently 
now found himself in a parlor for the first time in 
his life. 

Mr. and Mrs. Kruger looked at each other. 
Surely they did not want this ugly black dog, but 
how could they say so ? It would be very unkind 
to poor Lisa, who had done what she could, if they 
should show any dislike to her offering. So they 
received it with thanks, praised the poor frightened 
cur's soft ears, and extremely white teeth, and tied 
him to one of the legs of the sofa, where he began 
to indulge in howls of distress, in which the aristo- 
cratic little creatures on the sofa joined from time 
to time. 

"Another Bijou on the sofa ! " exclaimed the as- 
tonished Lisa, "and another yet ; that will make 

The Lieutenant was expected, but had not yet 
appeared. At last, a footstep was heard in the pas- 
sage, and, the door being opened, there was his 
servant in uniform, leading a large dog that tried 
very hard to escape from the string by which he 
was restrained. The man presented a note from 
the Lieutenant, as follows : 

Dear Aunt: Having tried in vain to procure a spaniel similar 
to the one you have lost, I send you in its place a fine hunting-dog, 
which has been described to me as very intelligent. Be so good as to 
accept him from me as a birthday gift, and, in memory of the former 
pet, give him the name of Bijou. &c, &c. 

"There seems to be no end to our dogs to- 
night," said the lady, a little out of temper. 

" And such an enormous creature, too. Far 
better no dogs than four dogs, in my opinion ; but 
we cannot refuse a birthday gift." 

"No, of course not." (Turning to the man): 
" Tie him to that leg of the sofa, if you please. He 
does not bite ? " 

" Indeed, ma'am, he bit me in the hand coming 

" There is a thaler for you. Give the Lieutenant 
our thanks, and tell him we are expecting him." 

" I know he will be here directly, madam. Thank 
you. madam." 




And now, what growling and whining there was ! 
— four dogs longing to get at each other. Mrs. 
Kruger did not know whether to laugh or to cry. 

A loud ring at the garden gate. 

" No more dogs, I do hope," said Mrs. Kruger. 
Anything in the world Bather than a fifth dog. See 
who it is, Lisa, but take in no more dogs." 

But, suddenly changing her tone, she exclaimed, 
as a whine echoed from below : " It is ! — it is ! I 
know his voice." 

And, sure enough, so it was, the for-two-weeks 
lost Bijou, who, racing and scrambling for joy in 
the way little dogs do, found his way first to his 
master and mistress and then to Lisa, eager to give 
them his animated and almost breathless greetings, 
so happy, so overjoyed was he. The Doctor held 
him up high under the light, to make very sure 
that it was their own Bijou and no other. He still 
wore his red collar, and to it was tied a dirty little 
note, as follows : 

Dear Doctor : I am a poor man, and have stolen many a dog 
and many another tiling besides; but when I took this dog, I did not 

know it was yours. Doctor. You cured my wife when she was sick, 
and charged me nothing, and were so good and kind. I can't steal 
your dog, so I bring him back, dear sir. J. 

" So there is honor among thieves," said the 
Doctor. "Did you see who it was that brought 
him back? " 

"The little ras — darling was tied to the door- 
handle," said Lisa, "and there was no one to be 

"And what can be done with the five dogs ? We 
are likely to have a noisy night of it." 

When the Lieutenant appeared they made a joke 
of offering him the two little dogs as a special token 
of honor. He remarked that two of his friends 
were in search of just such dogs ; and seeing that 
his uncle and aunt were not really in earnest, he- 
offered to take them off their hands. 

The two large dogs were placed in the garden, 
and intrusted respectively to the care of John and 
Lisa ; and Bijou — the darling, the real Bijou — re- 
sumed his old place in the house, and in the affec- 
tions of his master and mistress. 


By Frederic G. Mather. 

Now that cold weather has come, I would like 
to tell the boys who read St. Nicholas how they 
may enjoy themselves more during the present 
winter than they ever did in their lives. You have 
all of you noticed the sides of a hill when they are 
covered with snow ; and, as you have looked upon 
the gentle slope and the broad and level meadow 
beyond, you have thought: "I wish I could slide 
down that hill and way out over the meadow ; it 
would be such fun ! " 

But you all know that you could not use your 
sleds for the purpose of sliding down a hill-side 
where there is no road, because the runners would 
soon cut through the crust of the snow. Even if 
you commenced to slide and went part way down 
such a hill, your sled might be suddenly stopped 
and you would go rolling over and over toward 
the bottom. If you should try to slide down on a 
board you would certainly be stopped in this way ; 
and, after picking yourself up, you would feel as I 
did, when I was about six years old and tried to 
slide down the back stairs on a board. The board 

stuck upon the edge of one of the stairs and I went 
on to the bottom without it. Presently the board 
came down on top of me. This made such a noise 
that some one came to see what was the matter. 
My statement was simply this : " I thought I would 
slide down the stairs." I was warned not to try 
that again, and never did ; and I know that if you 
ever try to slide down hill on a board you will never 
repeat the experiment. 

A board is flat and will not sink into the snow so 
deep as the runners of a sled do ; but then the end 
is not turned up like the runners. Now, if we could 
have a combination of the sled and the board, we 
could slide down the hills and across the meadows. 
I will describe such a combination of the sled and 
board, and will tell you how you can easily make 
one. Then, whenever there is a good crust on the 
snow, you can have more fun in sliding than you 
ever had before. 

■ What I am about to describe is called a " tobog- 
gan." You cannot find that name in the diction- 
ary — for it is the name given to it by the Indians 



of northern Canada. They load these toboggans 
with furs, and often travel hundreds of miles over 
the snow to the trading-posts. Then they sell both 
their furs and their toboggans, and start on their 
tramp homeward. A great many toboggans are 
also made for the Canadian gentlemen and ladies 
who live in Montreal, Quebec and Ottawa, and it 
is quite a fashionable thing to use these queer-look- 
ing sleds. There are not very many places in the 
United States which are as cold as the cities I have 
named ; but we have enough cold weather to have 
considerable coasting in many parts of our own 
country — enough, at any rate, to make it worth 
while to have a toboggan. 

Should you wish to make one, you must take a 

1 board of bass-wood, oak, ash, or any other kind that 

will bend easily. Pine will not do, for it is too soft 

and will split. You will not be apt to find a board 

thin enough for your purpose ; but you can have 

one which was long 

jh to hold six or eight 


You will need seven pieces of hard wood, as long 
as your toboggan is wide ; and two pieces, each a 
little over four feet long. Each of these nine pieces 
should be one inch square or round. Time will 
be gained and trouble will be saved if you can have 
them made round at a lumber-mill. 

A visit to the shoemaker is next in order. You 
must tell him that you want four pairs of leather 
shoe-strings. He will probably ask you how many 
pairs of shoes you wear at a time ; but then he 
does not know that you are making a toboggan, 
and besides that, it is none of his business at any 
rate — for this is a free country, and you have a 
right to wear as many pairs of shoes at a time as 
you choose. 

Below is a plan of the toboggan. When you have 
studied it, you can begin to work. Lay six of your 

/;■.,: 4 MS''' 


it planed to a thickness of three-sixteenths to one- 
quarter of an inch. If the board is of hard wood 
the thickness may be considerably less than if it is 
of soft wood. A single board fifteen or sixteen 
inches wide is better than two boards ; but if you 
have to buy two boards, you may as well have 
them so arranged as to give a width of eighteen 
inches. The people who use toboggans do not 
seem to care if the board becomes split ; for they 
say that the cracks will keep the toboggan from 
sliding sideways. It is about the same thing wheth- 
er the single board is split, or two boards are used 
in the first place ; but you will find it much easier 
to make the toboggan out of a single board. 

This board should be six feet long. You can 
have it as much longer as you choose — but I am 
now telling you about the length of a toboggan 
which will hold two bovs. I have had a ride on 

round pieces (a, b, c, D, E, F) across the board, 
beginning at one end. They should be one foot 
apart. At right angles to these, and near their 
ends, lay the two long pieces, H and I. Bore four 
holes in the corner I A (see small cut), and tie 
both pieces to the board with part of" a shoe-string. 
Make two holes at K, and tie in the same manner. 
Let the knots always appear on the upper sur- 
face, and be sure that the leather which shows on 
the under side is parallel with the length of the 
board, as you see it arranged from F to L. The 
under side will be considerably smoother if you cut 
grooves to allow the leather strings to sink below 
the surface : but do not cut the grooves too deep. 

In this manner fasten all the braces from A to F; 
and the pieces I and H as you proceed. These 
long pieces are to be used as handles while you 
ride, and they should be sharpened at the end E. 




Be careful to fasten the brace, G, on the under side other side, and then your toboggan will be com- 

as the board lies flat upon the floor of your work- plete. At F and L you can attach a cord, and when 

shop. You are now ready to bend the end from E sliding you must use a sharp stick for steering this 

to g. If the board is not too thick you can do it strange craft. Here you have a picture of two boys 


at once ; but if there is any trouble you can use 
steam or hot water. Having bent it with a grace- 
ful curve, fasten with bits of leather the points G 
and E, and also the corresponding points on the 

on a toboggan. They have wrapped themselves 
up warmly and do not care for the snow. I hope 
that you all will have as good a time as they are hav- 
ing, if you should succeed in making a toboggan. 


" Oho ! " said the pot to the kettle ; 
" You 're dirty and ugly and black ! 
Sure no one would think you were metal, 
Except when you're given a crack." 

"Not so! not so!" kettle said to the pot. 
" 'T is your own dirty image you see; 
For I am so clean — without blemish or blot- 
That your blackness is mirrored in me." 





By Fannie Roper Fiiudge. 

T is not the first day of January, nor 
January at all, but the. sixth day of 
February that ushers in the Chinese 
New-Year. The grandest festival in 
all the calendar, so think the Celes- 
SsSffllSSB' tials ; and they celebrate it with most 
■**■ imposing ceremonies. Not a man, 
woman or child that does not take 
part in its festivities ; neither the in- 
fant of days nor the man of a cen- 
tury, the millionaire nor tire beggar — 
none may be excused from donning 
his best, and going out holidaying 
on New- Year. From the Emperor in his gorgeous 
palace, surrounded with pomp and luxury, down 
to his humblest subject, living and rearing his 
family perhaps in a boat, where kitchen, laundry, 
nursery and bedroom all are encompassed within 
the narrow limits of a space about twelve feet 
square, — every one, according to his rank and 
'ability, enters with heart and hand into the festivi- 
ties of the season. All business is suspended, and 
for three days at least, mirth, jollity and feasting 
rule the realm, while some of the wealthy keep up, 
for a much longer time, the routine of gayeties. 
All who can possibly procure it don on New-Year's 
Morn an entire new suit, no article of which has 
ever been worn before ; but even the very poor are 
sure to be arrayed in at least one new garment — a 
cheap hat, fan or handkerchief, if nothing more 
costly can be afforded. 

Not thus to honor the day would be regarded as 
1 national offense, and he who should venture so to 
violate the customs of his country would be pro- 
lounced unpatriotic as well as penurious. Many 
if the working class, who go bare-headed and bare- 
boted the year round, will, on New- Year's Day. 
nake a grand display of fancifully ornamented caps, 
vhite stockings and shoes of many-colored silk, 
hough, in all probability, they have been borrowed, 
>r hired for the occasion from regular dealers in 
econd-hand stock. Nor is this beautifying process 
onfined to the people. Boats, houses and fences 
nust be repaired, painted, and made to look new, 
a honor of the grand gala; and they are also 
>lentifully adorned with strips of bright red paper, 
n which are inscribed, in black or gilt letters, 
ood wishes, congratulations and compliments to 
11 who enter during the festal days. These mottoes 
re sometimes tastefully illuminated, and, blended 
ath quaint devices, are placed over and on the 

VOL. III. — 16. 

sides of the principal entrances to keep off " bad 
spirits," and bring general "good luck" to the 
owners and their families. 

On New-Year's Eve sacrifices of rice, fruits and 
sweetmeats are offered to the Old Year to induce 
him to depart in peace ; gold and silver paper are 
burned as at an ordinary burial, to indicate his 
death and interment ; and then in house and 
temple, among priests and people, who are every- 
where watching for his coming, the new-born year 
is heralded in with shouts and rejoicings that are 
echoed far and wide over every nook and corner of 
those great, populous cities. During the entire 
night every street and lane is thronged with pedes- 
trians, who, half wild with excitement, leap and 
shout, dance and sing, beat gongs and kettle-drums, 
and perform all manner of unheard-of gymnastics, 
each seemingly resolved to make more noise than 
any two of his fellows ! As day breaks, every door 
is closed, the busy streets are suddenly deserted, 
a solemn quiet reigns where just before mirth and 
madness had seemed to rule. Each household has 
"taken in the New Year and shut him in, to be- 
come domiciled with the family." 

But the lapse of a few hours brings another 
change of programme. Footmen in liveries and 
sedan-chairs, gayly decorated, throng the streets ; 
gentlemen pass from house to house on visits 
of ceremony ; elegantly clad servants bear presents 
and congratulatory cards from the wealthy and 
noble to their friends, and return laden with the 
like precious tokens of good-will ; social parties 
assemble in public and private saloons ; and as 
friends meet on the streets, each joins his hands 
on his breast, with body bent forward, and thus, 
for several minutes, they continue bowing and 
complimenting each other on the propitious return 
of this festal season. The lower class, who have 
been busy all the year round earning their bread, 
seem most of all to enjoy this annual holiday, as 
they sit at the door of their little cabins or in their 
gardens leisurely sipping tea from tiny cups no big- 
ger than a " doll's tea-set," while Mrs. " John" and 
all the "Johns" junior are for the time at least 
permitted to indulge unrestrainedly in such pas- 
times as best suit their fancy, ftater-familias stoop- 
ing from his dignity, this once in a year, to unite 
with them. Street concerts, theatricals, and fire- 
works lend their aid ; and so rapidly pass the three 
brightest days of the poor man's calendar : while 
for the rich, as I have hinted, sometimes as many 




weeks transpire before the ordinary routine of busi- 
ness and social life is resumed. 

One New-Year I was invited to spend the day 
with a Chinese tea merchant and his family ; and 
as I was anxious to learn exactly how they observed 
the festal season, I begged them to make no change 
either in their festivities or the bill of fare, but to 
let me be treated just as one of themselves. I had 
known the old merchant and his sons for some time, 
but had never met the ladies of his household. 

of pale blue silk, very richly embroidered, — all her 
own work, she told me. The skirt hung in full 
plaits about her slender figure, and the tight-fitting 
jacket showed to perfection the exquisitely rounded 
form, while the loose sleeve, open to the elbow, 
displayed an arm that might have served as a 
model for the sculptor. But all this loveliness was 
only for female eyes, for before entering the sitting- 
room, where her husband, father and brother-in-law 
were assembled, she put on the long, loose, outer 


There were three of them — i.e., the old gentleman's 
wife, an unmarried daughter and the newly wedded 
wife of the eldest son. The last, I had heard, was 
beautiful, but I was not prepared for such a vision 
of loveliness as met my view, when the tiny-footed, 
gentle-spoken twelve-year-old bride was introduced 
by her mother-in-law. She was very fair, with eyes 
bright as diamonds, and her long, jet-black hair, 
in one heavy braid, was twined with a wreath of 
natural flowers about the beautifully formed head, 
and held in place by jeweled pins. She wore ear- 
rings, of course, with necklaces, chains, bracelets 
and rings enough to have constituted quite a 
respectable fortune in themselves. Her dress was 

garment that Chinese ladies always wear when 
in "full dress." This came below the knee, its 
sleeves reaching to the tips of her fingers, whilst its 
loose, flowing style effectually veiled the fairy form, 
hiding all its symmetry. She had the tiny, pressed 
feet that the Chinese consider not only beautiful, 
but necessary to high breeding; and they were 
encased in the daintiest of satin slippers, em- 
broidered in seed pearls. But finery could not 
hide the deformity produced by so unnatural a 
process, nor the awkward limp of the poor little 
lady as she leaned on the shoulders of her maidens 
in hobbling from room to room. I asked her if the 
feet were still painful, and .she replied that for the 

i8 7 0.J 



last two or three years a sort of numbness had suc- 
ceeded the pain, but that formerly, and from her 
earliest recollection, her sufferings had been so 
intense that she would gladly have died ; and that 
she had often, in frantic agony, torn off the 
bandages, and when they were replaced, shrieked 
and screamed till delirium, for a time, relieved the 
consciousness of suffering. But after the fifth year 
the pain gradually became less intolerable, she 
said, and now she did not think very much about 
it, except when the bandages were changed. Then 
the return of the blood to the foot was such torture 
as language could not describe. Yet in reply to 
my question on the subject, this gentle girl-wife 
said it would be cruel in a parent not to press the 
feet of his daughter, as he thereby shut her out 
from good society, and made a plebeian of her for 

The bandages are always applied in early infancy, 
and before putting them on, all the toes except the 
first and second are doubled in beneath the soles 
of the feet. The length of the foot, after under- 
going this painful operation, never exceeds five 
inches, and ordinarily is scarcely four. 

The young daughter of my host was a petite 
maiden of ten, attired in dainty robes of rose- 
colored satin, embroidered in silver, and her glossy 
raven hair was disposed in two massive braids, 
hanging down almost to her tiny feet, twinkling in 
silver-hued slippers. Chinese maidens wear their 
braids down, and the " crown of wifehood " is sym- 
| bolized by the coronet of hair laid for the first time 
on the top of the head on the marriage-day. Ori- 
ental customs always have a meaning. 

When we entered the large drawing-room shortly 
before dinner, I could not keep my eyes from 
wandering, everything seemed so strange ; from 
the stiff, upright chairs and sofas, to the huge 
flower-vases, looking like miniature water-casks, 
and the quaint, costly chandeliers, whose use I 
never should have guessed but for the scores of 
wax tapers that glittered in them even at broad 
daylight. One of the chandeliers was shaped like 
a flying dragon, and out of mouth, eyes, wings and 
tail burst such a volume of light as fairly to dazzle 
one who ventured on too near an approach to the 
monster. But the strangest object of all, to my 
;yes at least, was a very elegant coffin, placed in 
i.:he most conspicuous part of the drawing-room. I 

was shocked at first, and drew back, but my host 
said, with an amused smile : 

"Oh, that was a birthday present from my son 
several years ago, and my daughter embroidered a 
beautiful silk sheet to accompany it." 

This, I learned afterward, was no uncommon 
case, — a handsome coffin and burial-sheet being 
considered by the Chinese very appropriate gifts 
from dutiful children to honored parents ; and 
people just as frequently buy such articles and lay 
them up for their own use. 

At dinner, we had all sorts of queer dishes, many 
of them very palatable ; but alas ! for me, there 
were only chop-sticks to eat with ! And my pre- 
dicament, was very much that of the stork when 
invited to dine with the fox. All my essays were 
in vain ; the dainty titbits I was longing to taste 
would not be coaxed between the ends of my deli- 
cately carved chop-sticks, and my eating was a very 
burlesque, which my gentlemanly host and his 
well-bred family vainly tried not to notice. At 
length he apologized by saying that he supposed I 
would prefer, at a Chinese table, to use the chop- 
sticks ; and he then ordered a knife, fork and spoon 
to be brought for me. Tea was served in tiny 
silver tea-pots that held less than half a pint, and 
each was placed on a silver waiter with fine little 
porcelain cups, without saucers or spoons, sugar or 
cream. This is the way the Chinese always drink 
tea, and one of these miniature services is placed 
before each guest, while a servant stands by to pour 
the tea and replenish the tea-pot when needed. 

After dinner we had some music, several games 
were played for my special entertainment, and my 
host showed me a rare collection of paintings done 
by the famous artist, Lang Qua. I was urged to 
remain for the night, but preferring to return, the 
sedan chairs were ordered to the door, and, attended 
by the son of my host, I took my departure, loaded 
with gifts from my hospitable entertainers. As the 
presents were all wrapped in tissue paper, I did not 
examine them till I reached my own home. Each 
contained the card of the donor ; a pair of vases 
from the lady of the house, a silver card-case from 
her husband, a wreath of wax flowers, only less 
lovely than her own fair self, from the gentle bride, 
and a pair of chop-sticks, with which, I have no 
doubt, the donor thought I needed special prac- 
tice, from the waggish younger son of mine host. 



[ February, 

' K :S 

Ka ! l\l 



By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Borrowing Mr. Bonwig's gun once more, Joe 
returned to the spot where he had shot the " old 
wives." They were still tossing on the surges in the 
inlet below. He descended the cliff, took off his 
clothes, plunged into the water, and brought out 
the birds. 

Then climbing to the top of the cliff again, he 
held up the game, to the delight of Bonwig's 
hungry eyes. 

" If you '11 dress and cook them," said Augustus, 
" I will keep the signal waving." 

'' I ought to ketch a few fish first," said Joe, 
" 'fore the tide is up. You can't ketch nippers so 
well at high water, for then they 're feedin' on the 
barnacles and things, on the rocks." 

" What 's nippers ? " said Augustus. 

" Cunners," said Joe, amazed at such ignorance. 
" Don't you know ? What you had for supper last 
night, and for breakfast agin this mornin'." 

" Oh ! salt water perch ! Of course, I know," 
said Mr. Bqnwig, remembering how good they 
were. " It would be fine, if we could get a few 
to keep the ducks company ! But you 've no pole 
nor line." 

" I alluz carry lines in my pocket," said Joe, 
"and I don't need a pole." 

" But you 've no worms ! " 

" I can find bait enough. I '11 look out for all 
that, if you '11 keep the star-spangled sheet a- 

i8 7 6.J 



Joe laughed, as he looked back and saw his portly 
friend flourishing the white flag, as if for dear life. 
"That exercise will do him good," thought he. 
" The trouble with that 'ar feller is, he 's so lazy. 
He was too lazy for to give the dory a little lift ; 
and now see where we be ! And don't I remember 
how easy that boat rowed ! — to him a-settin' com- 
f'r'able in the stern." 

He went down on the rocks by the water's edge, 
laid down his gun, — or rather Mr. Bonwig's, — and 
taking a ball of line from his pocket, proceeded to 
unwind it. At the inside end, he found a heavy 
sinker, a corn-cob, and a hook sticking into it. 
Putting the cob back into his pocket, to be used in 
winding the line up again afterward, he looked 
about him for bait. The rocks below high-water 
mark were covered with barnacles, as with a gray 
scum, and dotted here and there with periwinkles 
(Joe called them cockles) clinging to the ledge. 
Of these he gathered a handful, and laid them 
down by his gun. Then, having baited his hook 
from one of them, he "threw in." He stood on 
the brink of a steep rock, and the heavy sinker 
carried the line down in the deep water beside it, 
notwithstanding the dashing waves. 

All was quiet for a minute or two. Then he felt 
a little jerk. He gave a little jerk in return, and 
perceived that he had hooked something. He 
hauled up the line, hand over hand ; and a fine 
large cunner fell flopping on the ledge. He baited 
and threw in again, and had many nips (the cun- 
ner is notorious for nipping at your bait, and get- 
ting it without getting the hook ; hence the term 
nipper), and now and then drew up a fish. In half 
an hour, he found he had caught a handsome 

All this time he kept a keen look-out for game. 
And now he saw a flock of black ducks come flying 
low along the waves toward the island. They 
passed so near to him that he might easily have 
brought down a pair, but as they would have fallen 
into the water, and as he had no dory to pick 
them up, he, with admirable self-denial for so 
young a gunner, stood, piece in hand, and saw 
them pass. 

Arrived at the end of the island, instead of alight- 
ing, they wheeled and, rising, returned in a broad 
circle over it. 

Augustus had seen them coming, in the first 
place, and dropped his signal, and himself beside 
it, hoping for a shot. When they passed the island, 
he was quite wild with excitement, and came very 
near firing Joe's shirt at them. The distance at 
which they flew, from where he lay, was probably 
all that saved the shirt — and the birds. Before they 
returned, the sportsman had time to exchange the 
"queen's arm," which served as a flag-staff, for the 

other, which had no sleeve tied over the end of it ; 
and to place himself in readiness. 

" If they '11 only come again ! " thought he. " I 
believe there 's something in the gun, after all. 
Those are real duck guns ! They 're so heavy, I 
believe I can hold one steadier than I can my little 
light thing. By George ! there they come ! " 

They flew so directly over the summit of the 
island, that Mr. Bonwig, afraid to get up and show 
himself, rolled over on his back, pointed the 
" queen's arm " up into the air, and fired. 

The flock veered at sight of him, even before the 
flash ; and that was probably the reason why he 
did not kill a great many. He thought at first he 
had killed none. But the rocks below had barely 
had time to send back two sharp echoes of his shot 
(a very singular phenomenon, if Augustus had only 
stopped to consider it), when three ducks, one after 
the other, dropped down headlong out of the flock, 
and fell upon the island. 

Bonwig ran down to them, with cries of exulta- 
tion. At the same time Joe came crawling up over 
the ledge, with Bonwig's gun in one hand, and the 
string of fish in the other. 

" See that ? and that ? and that? " cried Augus- 
tus, holding up the ducks triumphantly. " Who 
said 't would n't take long to eat all I kill ? " 

Joe stood still, fish in one hand and gun in the 
other, and grinned at him. 

" See how fat they are. I picked for the plump- 
est, and then took aim. Waited till I got three in 
range. Never was so cool about anything in my 
life. If you have any more ducks to shoot, bring 
'em on. What are you laughing at ? I suppose 
you '11 say I did n't kill these, wont you ? " said the 
jubilant sportsman. 

" 'T was your gun that killed them, fast enough," 
replied Joe, chuckling over the joke. 

" Of course it was!" But Mr. Bonwig meant 
one gun, while Joe meant another. " This is a 
regular old-fashioned duck-shooter ! " — holding up 
the old "queen's arm." " I can handle it a great 
deal better than I can my piece. It has got so used 
to it, it seems almost to aim itself. It's nothing to 
shoot ducks with this gun ! Three at a shot ! what 
will my wife say to that ? Bless my heart ! " And 
he praised the ducks again. 

Joe laughed so that his knees began to give way 
under him, and his body to double up, and his 
hands to forget their cunning ; he dropped the 
fish, he dropped the gun, and finally dropped him- 
self — tumbling over and rolling on the rocks in 
convulsions of mirth. 

"Now what's the fun ?" said Mr. Bonwig, an- 

"You 've got the knack ! you 've got the knack ! " 
said Joe, winking away his tears. 




"What do you mean?" Augustus demanded, 
sternly, for he suspected that he was the subject of 

" Did the birds drop the very minute you fired ? " 

" Why, no, not the instant ; they were so aston- 
ished ; they had to take time to consider it ; that 
is, they were flying so fast, it was a second or two 
before they could change their course and come 

" And did n't you hear any other gun ? " 

"Why, — my shot — echoed ! " said Augustus. 

" How many times ? " 

"Twice; I do believe it was a sort of double 

" That was the echo ! " said Joe, holding up the 
double-barreled piece, and then immediately going 
into convulsions again. 

Augustus seized it. He remembered that it was 
loaded when it last went into Joe's hands ; and 
now, nervously shoving down the ramrod, he found 
the barrels empty. He still stoutly insisted, how- 
ever, that he had killed the ducks ; but it was with 
a flushed face and a greatly disturbed look. 

" If you did, you beat me with your knack ! " 
said Joe. 

"How so? Explain yourself. Do stop that 
confounded giggling, and explain yourself ! " said 

"J can't kill ducks without any shot in my 
gun ; and there was n't any shot in the gun you 
fired ! " 

" That 's a — a — likely story ! " gasped poor Mr. 

" You see," said Joe, " I was goin' to leave the 
old guns with you, and I was afraid you 'd be 
shooting at me, as you did afore ; so I did n't put 
any shot into 'em ! Try 't other one, and see ! " 

Augustus drew the wad from the flag-staff, and 
found only powder beneath it. He then sat down 
dejectedly on the ledge, and remained thoughtful 
for a long while. At last he said : 

"Come, Joe, we've fooled about enough; it's 
time to think of getting ashore." 

" It 's ' nothing to slwot ducks with that gun ! ' 
— ' three at a shot ! ' — ' it aims itself! ' Oh, ho ! 
ho ! ho ! " 

"Come !"said Augustus, sharply. " How about 
dinner ?" 

" You ' picked for the plumpest, and then took 
aim!'" cried Joe. "' Waited till you got them 
in range ! — never was so cool in your life ! ' Oh, 
ho ! I shall die ! " And he rolled on the rocks 

Mr. Bonwig had suddenly once more grown ex- 
tremely anxious about their situation. He stretched 
the shirt on the " queen's arm " again, and began 
to wave it with great solemnity. 

Joe then sat up, stopped laughing, took a knife 
from his pocket,, and then and there commenced 
dressing the fish for dinner. 

" You 've got a nice string there ! " the hungry 
Augustus at last remarked, regarding the process 

Joe said it was a nice string. He made no fur- 
ther allusion to Mr. Bonwig's remarkable sports- 
manship (although he would now and then be 
taken with a stitch in his ribs, a cramp in his 
stomach, or spasms in the muscles of his face, 
which he found it hard to overcome) ; and from 
that moment the two were good friends again. 

"I must find a board somewhere; and I guess 
I better be startin' the fire." And Joe carried his 
fish and game down to the house of refuge, where 
he could give occasional vent to his mirth, without 
hurting his friend's feelings. 

Leaving Mr. Bonwig to wave the signal and keep 
a look-out, he made preparations for dinner. " I 
would n't burn up this wood to make chowders, as 
the fellers do," thought he ; " but ar'n't we sort of 
shipwrecked ? " And he comforted his conscience 
with the reflection that the Humane Society would 
approve of what he was doing. 

At last, he called Mr. Bonwig to dinner. That 
hungry gentleman made haste to prop up the 
standard with stones, and obeyed the joyful sum- 

" Joe," said he, catching the savory odor of the 
cooking as he entered the hut, " I am surprised ! 
Who would have thought you could get up such a 
dinner ? " 

" This bench is the table, these clam-shells are 
the plates ; use your pocket-knife, and your fingers 
are the fork," said Joe, proudly. " Now taste o' 
the fish, and see how sweet they are, without salt 
nor nothin' on 'em. " 

"Glorious !" cried Augustus. " But what's that 
on the coals ? " 

" Pieces of your ducks a-brilin," said Joe. 

"Now look here, Joe!" remonstrated Augus- 

" Did you re'lly think you shot 'em ?" Joe asked. 

" My imagination was excited ; that 's all I have 
to say — my imagination was excited." And now 
Augustus himself had to laugh. 

Joe had seated himself astride one end of the 
bench, facing Mr. Bonwig ; and Mr. Bonwig had 
seated himself astride the other end, facing Joe; 
and there they feasted ; — Joe turning occasionally 
to take up a fish from the coals with a sharp stick, 
or to turn the broiling morsels of wild duck. 

" Dinner's a good invention," said Augustus. 

" And I ha'nt nothin' petickler to say ag'in a 
fire — arter a feller 's been around and hum, in a 
cold north-wester, without his shirt on," said Joe. 




"We sha' n't fare so badly, at this rate," observed 
Mr. Bonwig, resignedly. 

" We shall fare well enough ; all I think on now 
is that plaguy dory," replied Joe. 

" I '11 make that all right with your father, if we 
ever get ashore again ; so don't worry about the 

" By sixty ! Will ye, though? That improves 
my appetite! Guess I '11 try a drumstick." 

He took a duck's leg in his fingers, and put on 
] his cap. " Finish yer dinner," said he ; ''and I '11 
go out and tend the signal." 

"That's a good boy!" said Augustus, feeling 
easier in his mind, for he had scarcely begun his 
dinner yet, although he had eaten two perch to 
Joe's one, and game in proportion. 

In half an hour Joe came running back, and 
found his amiable friend fast asleep on the straw; 
that rosy and plump gentleman having been unable 
to resist the drowsiness which overcame him almost 
before the conclusion of his repast. "I guess Joe 
will look after the signal," was his comfortable re- 
flection, as he stretched himself on the straw. " For 
my part, I 'm tired of standing on a bleak rock, in 
a north-west wind, waving a shirt on an old gun- 
barrel ! " And he gave himself up to delicious 

Joe regarded, him with disgust; but he did not 
wake him. " Lazy bummer ! I '11 come up with 
him," said he ; and off he went again. 

Another half hour elapsed, when Mr. Bonwig 
awoke from a vivid dream of firing into a flock of 
old queen's arms, that flew over his candy-shop in 
town, and doing great damage to a number of in- 
nocent persons who happened to be passing in the 
street when the shattered barrels and butt-ends 
came rattling down upon them. 

" Hello !" said he. " Hel-lo ! " looking about 
him. " I 'd quite forgotten I was cast away! I 
wonder if Joe has signaled anything yet." 

He went out, and found the signal gone. The 
gun was lying on the rocks ; but neither Joe, nor 
Joe's shirt, was anywhere to be seen. 

" The rogue has found some means of getting 
ioff ; he has left me his old flint-lock, and deserted 
me ! " was Mr. Bonwig's first appalling thought. 

He wandered about in great distress of mind for 
iome minutes, calling loudly on Joe. Finally the 
'eport of a gun made answer. With gladdened 
leart he hastened in the direction of the sound, and 
;aw Joe on the beach where they had first landed, 
aicking up a brace of plover he had just shot. 

" Where's the signal?" Augustus asked, wildly, 
xmscious of culpable neglect on his own part. " I 
1 hought you said you would keep that waving." 

" Did n't I ? " said Joe, " for ever so long after I 
eft you ! Then I went back and found you snoozin'. 

So I made up my mind if that was all you cared 
for gittin' ashore, I would n't trouble myself any 

"But. — Joseph !" Bonwig remonstrated, — "this 
wont do ! We must wave the signal." 

" Wave it then ! though I little 'druther ye 
would n't ; it scares the game." 

" What have you done with the shirt?" 

" Put it on, of course ! I was cold, and I went 
to huntin' to get warm." 

" Oh, now, let's have it again ! " said Augustus, 

" Nary shirt ! " replied Joe, obstinately. "Use 
yer own, — it's your turn this time." 

Bonwig coaxed, and made offers of money, and 
various promises of future favors, all to no purpose. 
He buttoned his coat all the more tightly, and de- 
clared that he would not part with his shirt again, 

Augustus looked all around for succor; he saw 
sails in the distance, but not one near ; and, after 
some moments of sad hesitation, he began to un- 
button his hunting-jacket. The winds cut him. 

" I '11 give you a heap of candy, if you only will, 
Joe ! " 

"Who knows you'll ever see your candy-shop 
again ? " said Joe. 

Augustus unbuttoned two more buttons. 

" 1 11 send down a trunk-full, by express ! " 

Still Joe would not yield. Bonwig unbuttoned 
the last button. Joe began to roar with laughter 
again. Augustus was actually taking off his shirt, 
preparatory to sticking it upon the gun-barrel, when 
he evidently began to suspect mischief. 

" Now, what 's the joke ? " 

"Come over here, and I'll show you ! Bring 
everything. We're going ashore now." 

" Going ashore ! " said the mystified Augustus. 

Joe made no answer, but led him around to the 
point from which the dory had gone adrift, and 
showed it, hauled up there again as snugly as if 
nothing unusual had happened to it. 

" Well, now ! I am surprised ! Now — then — 
bless my heart ! " said the amazed Augustus. 

" When you was asleep," said Joe, " I went in to 
tell you there was a sail-boat beatin' up toward us, 
with a dory in tow, but you was snorin'. So, I got 
mad, and left ye. It was our dory. They had 
picked her up at sea, and looked in the direction 
the wind was blowin' from, and seen our signal with 
a glass ; and as they was out for fun, they jest beat 
up here to us. They picked up the loons by the 
way; and I give 'em the loons and two black 
ducks and an old wife, for bringin' her in ; and 
first-rate, tip-top chaps they was. too ; and they 
wanted to pay me for the ducks, but I would n't 
take no pay, of course ! And here the dory was 




tied, all the while you was trying to have me to 
take off my shirt agin, and then takin' off your 
own ! " 

" Well, I am ! I don't think I was ever quite so 
agreeably surprised in my life ! " said Mr. Bonwig. 
I may get back to town yet to-night. How long 
will it take to row ashore ? " 

"Oh, not long," said Joe, " this boat rows so 

"Look here! I believe I was going to row 
back," said Bonwig. " You row till I finish this 

water off, and said he was surprised ! I let him 
try it over again, and we began to make a track 
like a sea-serpent's, zigzag, zigzag. But I let him 

" ' It surprises me,' says I, ' to see how easy this 
boat rows ! ' He did n't say nothin', but turned red 
as ever you see a biled lobster ; and did n't he sweat 
and blow ! Then we came to the breakers. They 
wan't more'n half so high as they was in the morn- 
in', or I never should a' let him row on to 'em. But 
I thought 't would be fun. We went over the first 
one slick enough. With the second one, the boat 


When he had finished the cigar, they were within 
half a mile of the Cove. 

" He thought he was goin' to do wonders," 
said Joe afterward, telling the story of their early 
sporting days. " He took the oars, and give a 
tremenjous pull, as if he was goin' to send us home 
with two strokes ; but jest as he was strainin' 
with all his might, they slipped out of the rullocks, 
and away he went, over backward, and heels over 
head into the bottom of the boat, with his legs 
stridin' up over the thwart, and his arms spread 
like a thug's wings, and his head and shoulders in 
a puddle of water, in the bottom of the dory. It 
must have hurt him some ; but, for the life of me, 
I could n't help laughin'. He got up, brushed the 

began to skew ; and the third one took us broad- 
side. 'T was a wrecker, I tell you ! and did n't it 
heave and twist us ! We came within one of chop- 
pin' over ! and you never see a chap so scared ! He 
pulled first one oar, then t'other; we turned com- 
pletely around, and was puttin' out to sea agin afore 
we knowed it ! 

" ' Bless my heart, Joe,' says he, ' take the oars ! 
Take 'em ! I would n't row unto the breakers again 
for a million dollars ! ' 

"But I ought not to say a word agin Bonwig," 
adds Joe, laughing, whenever he tells the story to his 
children — for this adventure, as I said in the begin- 
ning, happened years ago ; he is no longer Young 
Joe, he is Old Joe now. " He was a first-rate, tip- 




top feller, arter all. And his conduct to me was 
right down handsome, when I took him over to 
town in our wagon — for he was too late for the 
stage. ' Joe,' says he, jest afore we got to his house, 
' I believe, with your father, that shootin' ducks is 
a knack ; rowin' a dory in the breakers requires a 
knack, too. I 'm gettin' too old and clumsy to 
learn to do either ; and I believe I sha'n't try again. 
And now, Joe, my boy,' says he, ' as I don't ex- 
pect to use my gun again, and as you seem to take 
such a fancy to it, and as you have been so very 

kind to me, in spite of your jokes, I 've concluded,' 
says he, ' to make you a present.' And what did 
the gay old chap do but slip that beautiful double- 
shooter into my hand. Did n't the salt spray 
come into my eyes ? and war n't I the proudest 
and happiest boy in thirteen counties, at that 
moment ? And have n't I kept that rare old stub- 
twist shootin'-iron all these years, to remember 
Bonwig by ? " 

And Joe takes down the piece from over the 
chimney corner, and shows it again to his children. 

By Amy Lovell. 

In the long winter evenings, when lessons are all 
learned, supper eaten, and while bed-time is still 
a good way off, there comes a pause which is (or 
should be) "known as the children's hour." Every- 
body is a little tired. Boys and girls stretch them- 
selves again, and wish there were something pleas- 
ant to do. If there is not anything pleasant to do, 
the yawns increase, the pause becomes first dull, 
then quarrelsome, and the evening ends unpleas- 
antly, or the boys sidle toward the door and invent 
errands to the store or the post-office, which lays 
the foundation of a habit of being out, and of vari- 
ous mischiefs. 

Now there are plenty of pleasant things which 
can be done to fill up this unoccupied hour. The 
boys and girls can play at chess, backgammon, or 
cards. Don't be shocked, dear papas and mammas, 
at the word " cards." Cards are not in themselves 
harmful, and almost all young people are likely to 
play them sooner or later. It is a thousand times 
better that they should do so at home as a permitted 
amusement, than away from home, with the feel- 
ing that they are indulging in a guilty pleasure 
which they must hide from you. There can be 
reading aloud from some really entertaining book. 
There are parlor games of all kinds, and some which 
tax the wits a little without tiring them. There are 
candy-pulling, corn-popping, roasting apples by a 
string, telling stories round the fire, piano kaleido- 
scope, acting charades. And, easier than charades, 
and better fun, there is acting a ballad, about which 
I particularly want to tell, because it is new to 
many of you, and in the long winter evenings at 
hand you may like to try it. 

Acting a ballad does not require as much prep- 
aration as acting a charade, because the move- 
ment is all in pantomime, and is regulated by the 
movement of the ballad chosen. It is necessary, 
of course, that all who act should know the ballad, 
or should read it over carefully several times, so as 
to be prepared for what is coming, and ready to 
express by their gestures and faces what is supposed 
to be going on. Many who have not confidence to 
act in a charade, will find that they can do this 
easily, for no ready wit is needed, and it often is 
much easier to follow a course laid out for you 
than to invent one of your own. 

If there is a piano in the room and any one who 
can sing, the ballad should be sung, slowly and dis- 
tinctly, with an accompaniment which introduces 
an imitation of the sounds of wars, storms, guns, 
or whatever else may transpire in the ballad. If 
not, it must be read or recited, taking care to pro- 
nounce clearly and give due emphasis to the words. 
The characters must come in at the proper mo- 
ment as the singing or reading progresses, and 
time their movements to the movement of the 
story. The ballad chosen should always be one in 
which there is little relation and as much action as 
possible. Campbell's ballad of " Lord Ullin's 
Daughter" is a good example of the sort of ballad 
to choose. ''The Young Lochinvar" is another, 
and that pretty poem, "Old Mistletoe Bough," 
which is always successful, giving as it does oppor- 
tunity for quaint groups and sudden changes of 
scene.* Others, which I have never seen acted, but 
which could not fail of effect, are Tennyson's ballads 
of "The Lord of Burleigh" and "Ladv Clare." 

' This ballad, with full directions for acting it in costume, was given in St. Nicholas for January. 1S75, page 191. 




None of these are funny ballads, although the im- 
provised scenery, dresses and stage properties will 
naturally lend a flavor of comedy to them as they 
are enacted. In entertainments of this sort, grace 
should be consulted as well as comedy, and there is 
a wide difference between burlesquing a poem and 
acting it with just that tender edge of fun which 
gives piquancy without marring the intention of 
the poet. 

As an example of comical ballad-acting, let us 
take Campbell's " Lord Ullin's Daughter,'' a poem 
with which most of you are probably familiar. It 
requires four principal performers, and two or 
three assistants, who remain out of sight, or by 
the courtesy of the audience are supposed to 
be so. 

The curtain rises revealing the ferry-man in his 
boat. There is no need of an actual curtain ; a 
blanket shawl hung on two gimlets answers the 
purpose perfectly, or if there are two connecting 
rooms a door can be opened and shut. As real 
boats are not easily obtainable in parlors, it will be 
well to make a substitute out of two large clothes 
baskets, which will furnish convenient accommoda- 
tion for three persons. There must be footstools 
or boxes for seats, and beneath the boat large trav- 
eling shawls or table-cloths should be spread, 
which the assistants at the sides of the room can 
shake to imitate the movement of waves, — slightly 
at first, but more and more impetuously as the story 
goes on. The boatman is naturally in shirt-sleeves 
or in a jacket or great-coat, while pokers or yard- 
sticks will suffice for oars. 

The other characters are the lady, her knight, 
and the father. 

The poem begins thus : 

A chieftain to the Highlands bound, 

Cries, " Boatman do not tarry ! 
And I 'II give thee a silver pound 

To row us o'er the ferry." 

During the singing of this verse the chief and 
lady enter. The chief shows the boatman a piece 
of money. He is dressed in hat and tall feather, 
with a plaid shawl arranged to represent the High- 
lander's "plaid," and is armed with a bread-knife 
or pistols; he also carries a valise, band-box and 
umbrella. The lady should be attired in a wide 
hat and water-proof cloak, and should carry a bird- 
cage, a work-basket, and a parasol. 

Second verse : 

" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 

This dark and stormy water?" 
" Oh, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 

And this Lord Ullin's daughter." 

This is all in pantomime, of course. The boat- 
man calls attention to the stormy water, as the 

waves rise, and strives with gestures to dissuade 
them from crossing. Third verse : 

" And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together ; 
For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather." 

Here the lady is terrified and shudders, looking 
imploringly at the boatman. He goes on with 
much action through the next : 

" His horsemen fast behind us ride; 
Should they our steps discover. 
Then who should cheer my bonnie bride 
When they have slain her lover?" 

The boatman consents to receive them, and bus- 
tles about as preparing the boat. The lady clings 
to her lover and looks anxiously behind. Next 
verse : 

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I 'II go, my chief, I 'm ready. 
It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady. 

" And by my word! the bonnie bird 
In danger shall not tarry ; 
So though the waves are raging white, 
I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 

They hurry their luggage into the boat; the lady 
gets in, the chief and the boatman remain stand- 
ing and look back for the pursuers. 

But now the storm increases, the gas should be 
lowered, and the piano accompaniment should be 
a low dull roll in the bass, with occasional high wild 
notes, to represent the water-spirit. 

With this the storm grew loud apace; 

The water-wraith was shrieking : 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 

Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 

And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men — 

Their tramping sounded nearer 

A tramping should be made in the hall, grad- 
ually approaching; the terror of all in the boat 

" O haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, 
"Though tempests round us gather; 
I 'II meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

The boat has left that stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her — 
But oh! too strong for mortal hand, 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

The lady clings to her bird-cage, the chief puts 
down his umbrella wide open and feebly assists in 
the rowing. The waves increase, and the tramp- 
ing approaches nearer. 

And still they rode amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing 

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore; 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

i8 7 6.j 



Here Lord Ullin rides in on a chair or cane, with 
cloak and feathered hat. He is armed with a lance, 
which can be improvised from a yard-stick. See- 
ing the fearful situation of things, the distracted 
parent rides frantically up and down imploring 
their return, his steed curvetting excitedly. 

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade 

His child he did discover; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

" Come back ! come back ! " he cried with grief, 

Across that stormy water ; 
'' And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter! O my daughter! " 

The gestures of the stern father must show how 
•intense is his anxiety. The boat reels ; one by one 
the things are thrown overboard, bird-cage, valise, 
umbrella and work-basket. Even these sacrifices 
are in vain. The boatman endeavors to turn the 

'T was vain — the loud waves lashed the shore, 

Return or aid preventing. 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 

The entire boat and its contents toss and reel, 
until they at last all topple over, and are supposed 

to be submerged in the wild waters ; the waves 
(shawls) rise, and finally cover them from sight. 
The father remains frantically riding to and fro, 
ringing his hands, and enacting the most intense 
despair. At last he rides off, while the others 
emerge from their watery graves, and the curtain 
falls, let us hope, amid " immense applause." 

Ingenuity is essential in converting to use mate- 
rials that some would think of no avail, but which 
others quickly adopt. Thus an open umbrella be- 
comes an apple-tree with an apple stuck on each 
point, a shovel and poker make a fair violin, while 
a muff-box or a saucepan does duty as a military 
hat. This is much better fun than to have the real 
things. What is more amusing than the play in 
"Midsummer Night's Dream," where a lantern' 
represents moonshine, and somebody takes the part 
of a wall, holding up his fingers to make a cranny 
for the lovers to whisper through ! 

Both for winter and summer evenings ballad- 
acting can be made an available entertainment. 
Even in the woods at a picnic, one could be easily 
arranged, the bushes serving as screen and green- 
room for the characters, and the stage appoint- 
ments being furnished out of the lunch baskets 
and the wearing apparel of the audience. 


By R. R. Bowker. 

T was a bright afternoon in mid- 
summer, and the jeweler who 
lives in the sun was showering 
everything with gold. Did you 
never hear of the jeweler who 
lives in the sun ? It is he who 
in the morning turns the dew- 
drops into sparkling diamonds, 
and at noonday makes rainbow 
bridges of the sun's precious 
stones, and, when sunset comes, 
builds castles of ruby with gates 
of pearl. A wonderful workman 
is he, and now he was emptying great bushel-bas- 
kets full of gold dust out of his shop-windows, and 
the lake was all smooth gold, as far as eyes could 
see, and the green trees were all covered, and so 
were the blue mountains, and one could see it com- 
ing softly down through the air from beyond the 

white clouds. One could see at the edges of the 
clouds, too, how it had fallen upon them, and had 
lodged among their fleece and there stayed. It 
was as if there had been a snow-storm in summer, 
and all the snow-flakes were pure gold. 

Four men were in a boat on the lake, and one 
said to the others : " Look at the gold ! " One was 
a poet, who sang to hearts of the golden age ; and 
one was a miser, who hoarded the yellow gold so 
that no one but he could see it, or use it, and it 
could do no good ; and the third was a barterer, 
who bought and sold it, and thought of it only; 
and the last was an artist, who had golden visions, 
and painted pictures that made folks joyful with 

So they all looked at the gold, and each one 
thought to himself: " What may I do with it ? " 

And the miser thought: " I will get on shore as 
soon as ever I can, and I will hurrv and get all the 




largest trunks that ever I can, and be first to 
gather up all the gold, and nobody shall have any 
of it but me." So he got to land, and found six- 
teen trunks, each as large as a bureau. But when 
he got them to the place, the gold was nowhere to 
be seen, and not the smallest gold-flake did the 
miser get. 

And the barterer thought: "I will fill my pouches 
with the gold, and carry it to the city, and buy and 
sell, and make more." So he opened all his 
pouches as wide as he could, and the gold fell in, 
and he buttoned and stitched and double-stitched 
them up, as safe as safe could be. But when he 
got to the city and opened them, — it had all van- 
ished, and there was no gold in them ! 

And the artist thought : "I will let it fall upon 
my palette, and catch it in my brush, and thus I 
will mix it with my colors and paint pictures that 
will make people joyous and me great." So he did, 

and painted sea and shore and sky so wonderfully 
that men forgot their sorrows and were joyous, and 
praised the artist. 

And the poet ? The poet's heart was so full that 
he could do nothing; he could not think what was 
so beautiful that he might use so beautiful a thing 
for it. He could only open his soul to the beauty 
of it, and pray that he might give its beauty also to 
others. There it lay, till one time when he was 
sad and in trouble, and then it shaped itself into 
strange, sweet music, and by and by the poet wrote 
a wonderful poem, so that all the hearts of the peo- 
ple opened to him, and they listened when he sang 
to them what was happiness, and how to know 
and to be the good, the true, and the beautiful — 
that was it. 

And the miser and the barterer wished: "Oh 
that I were the artist ! " and the artist wished : 
" Oh that I were the poet ! " 


By Martha M. Thomas. 

" Sally, can't you go over to Uncle Eben's this 
afternoon and bring home those pigs ? There are 
seven in the litter he promised me, and they are 
quite large. I must finish getting the wheat in, 
and he does not want to feed them any longer. 
The pen is ready." 

Sally, a bright-looking girl of about fourteen, 
raised herself from the tub over which she leaned, 
and said, as she wiped down her arms with her 
hands: " How, father ?" 

Mr. Watson had come in for his ten o'clock snack 
after his early breakfast. He stood in the middle 
of the kitchen floor, a bowl of coffee in one hand, 
and a huge piece of apple-pie in the other. He 
took a bite of the latter, and a drink of coffee be- 
fore he answered. 

" In the little light wagon. I stopped at Eben's 
yesterday as I came from meeting, and he said he 
would put them up securely in a couple of old coops 
that would stand in the back of the wagon. You 
can have Dolly ; we are not using her. What do 
you say, mother ; can you spare her ? " 

"Yes," said Mrs. Watson, a neat, brisk little* 
woman, who came in, basket in hand, from hang- 
ing up the clothes; "the wash will all be out by 
noon, and I will clean up." 

" Can't I have one of the pigs for going for them, 
father! You said you only wanted a half-dozen; and 
there are seven." 

"Yes, and you can buy your Sunday suit next 
Fall with the money it brings." He pulled her ear 
as he went out again to his work. 

" My ! " Sally gave a little nod of her head as 
she began briskly rubbing her ear. " I 'm sure I '11 
make it fat. Jane Burns got sixteen dollars for the 
one her father gave her last year. Mother, can't I 
take Lot and Polly ; it is such a long, lonesome way 
to go by one's self? " 

Mrs. Watson assented, adding: " Dolly is such 
a fast trotter you can stay there a while, and get 
home before dark. Be sure you stop at the post- 
office, and go to the store and get me some but- 

There was a great deal to do ; dinner was late, and 
the afternoon had quite set in when Sally started. 
Her way was through the village a half-mile off, 
and then nearly five miles beyond. It was the first 
week in October, the day was warm and soft, and 
the country beautiful. The road lay through the 
woods, steep in places, running up hills and down 
again in little valleys, through which many a creek 
babbled ; it was not fenced off, and the wild grape 

i8 7 6.] 



•and the pawpaw were almost within reach, as they 
rode along. The trees had just begun to turn. 
The sugar maple swayed gently to the light breeze, 
scattering a crimson cloud to the earth ; the Virginia 
creeper embraced the huge trunks, or flung out 
long, graceful branches of purple, and brown, and 
scarlet; the pawpaw was flaming in golden yellow; 
the haw, with its red berries, dotted the road-side, 
while here and there, brilliant with the hue of roy- 
alty's self, great clusters of iron-weed towered in 
the Autumn light, and from the branches of the 
butternut, hickory and walnut, the occasional sound 
of dropping nuts was heard. 

Dolly trotted along briskly, and the children 
talked of the wonderful animals they had seen the 
Saturday before, — for a traveling menagerie had 
halted on some fields near the village, and the 
whole population for miles around had turned out 
to visit it. Lot, who was a boy of eight, had been 
most impressed by the bears, but Patty, who was 
younger, seemed to have been most fascinated with 
the big snake. 

Then they fell to talking "sposens," what they 
should do if a bear or snake was to attack them 
there in the woods. Lot was extremely valiant ; he 
thrust about with a stick, showing how he would 
put him to flight, and in the midst of their talk 
they reached their uncle's house, having met but 
one person on the road. 

They made but a short stay, as it was getting 
late, and, with the pigs cooped and stowed in the 
back of the wagon, which had no top and was open 
all around, started for home. 

Seated on the floor, Lot and Patty poked bits of 
apple through the slats of the coop to the young 
porkers, speculating upon their appearance and 
advising Sally which to take for her own. Lot 
would have the black one if he were she, because 
it was the biggest, but Patty thought the little 
spotted one was "so cunning." 

They were about a mile from the village at the 
top of a long hill, when Lot, who had exhausted 
his supply of apple bits, and for the last fifteen 
minutes had been poking the pigs, delighted to 
hear them squeal, suddenly gave them such a thrust 
that Sally bade him stop the noise, and come and 
sit beside her on the seat. 

He arose to do as he was bidden, and as he did 
so, stood for a moment with his back to her, still 
poking the pigs. Just then the wagon jolted over a 
large stone, he was thrown on the coop, the stick 
was punched violently into a pig's side, it squealed, 
Lot screamed, and Patty began to cry. 

Considerably out of patience, Sally leaned back, 
and, catching him by the arm, was about to seat 
him rather violently beside her, when she was ar- 
rested by his exclaiming : 

"See! see! Sally, look! look! what an awful 
bear ! " 

The tone of his voice more than his words — for 
he was a sensational child, and was constantly see- 
ing wonderful things — caused Sally to turn her eyes 
in the direction indicated by his frightened gesture. 

The wood was open at this spot, and there were 
no large trees near; but at some distance, almost 
alone, stood a great sycamore, the branches of 
which were nearly bare ; between the tree and the 
road the ground was thickly covered with black- 
berry, pawpaw, and other bushes. 

As she glanced quickly toward the great syca- 
more, a something huge, she could not tell what, 
leaped from the tree to the ground, and she could 
hear the underbrush crack beneath it. She knew 
there were no ferocious wild animals in Ohio, noth- 
ing in the forests to harm her, and had not been 
for many years, but her face blanched with fear. 

" Lie down," she said in a tone which both terri- 
fied and quieted the children, as she thrust Lot to 
the bottom of the wagon and tore the stick from 
his hands, laying it quickly and forcibly on Dolly's 

The horse sprung forward in a gallop, reaching 
the foot of the hill in a few moments and clattering 
over the few boards thrown across the creek for a 
bridge. Now Sally ventured to look back. The 
huge thing was on their track, coming along in 
great leaps, which would soon bring him up to 

"Don't raise your heads," she said to the chil- 
dren, who were so alarmed they lay perfectly still. 
Then she leaned forward and with all her strength 
belabored the horse. There was a long level piece 
of road now, but the nearest house was a mile off. 
Poor Dolly was speeding over the ground, intensely 
roused and excited by this unusual treatment, and 
seemed to feel there was danger, for her ears stood 

Sally turned again to look. There was nothing 
now to intercept her view, and she saw the terrible 
animal not far behind, amid the cloud of dust their 
progress made, coming on — on ! 

Frantically she struck poor Dolly. 

" Is the bear coming? Will he eat us?" came 
in smothered accents from the bottom of the wagon, 
where the children lay with their faces pressed close 
to the boards. 

Sally did not reply. She gave another look, saw 
that the thing gained on them, and exerting all 
her strength in giving Dolly a last blow, which 
sent her bounding forward, she got over the seat — 
over the children, unheeding their questions, and 
seizing one of the coops threw it over the tail-board 
out in the road. The pigs squealed as it touched 
the earth, and the noise added to Dolly's terror. 

2 3 8 



which was now so intense she was entirely beyond 
Sally's control. 

" Are we going to be eaten up ? " Lot whimpered 
in almost a whisper. 

"Hush," she answered, "hush." She let the 
horse take its way, and placed herself on her knees 
between the children and the other coop. 

The terrible creature had stopped. She could see 
it strike the coop with its paw, and see the pieces 
fly as he touched it. How long would it keep 
him, she thought ; and there came a throb of re- 

not see the animal coming. This was worse than 
watching its approach. She threw the other coop 
out, then stretched herself between the children, 
closed her eyes, and drew an arm tightly around 

As she lay thus clasping them, she felt Dolly's 
pace slacken. She kept still, feeling that if she 
moved something would spring upon her. The 
horse was evidently wearying — gradually her gait 
became slower ; they must be near the village. 

With a great effort she raised herself, and saw 


lief as she saw that meantime they were speeding 
further and further away. 

She looked round in vain ; there was no one in 
sight, the farm-house was still a quarter of a mile 
ahead, and the animal she feared was becoming 
only a black spot in the distance ; but as she gazed 
with fixed eyes, she saw the dust rise again. It 
was moving. 

They reached the farm-house gate. It was closed. 
She could not stop Dolly now, and, even if she 
could, she had not the courage to get down and 
open it, and drive to the house some distance up 
the lane. She called aloud, but no one heard. 
There were turns in the road — several ; she could 

the houses only a little distance in advance. She 
crawled over the children and the seat, and gath- 
ered up the reins. Dolly gave a start as she did 
so, but in a moment subsided — got into her usual 
pace, and dropped that for a walk. In a few mo- 
ments she was in the street of the village, and at 
the store. Clambering out of the wagon, Sally tried 
to tell Mr. Jones her story, but burst into tears, and 
was unable to speak. 

The children, who had followed her, now found 
their voices, and eagerly told of the bear, and how 
she had thrown them the pigs. 

" Bless my soul, what is this? " asked Mr. Jones 
in excitement. 

1 876.] 



Then Sally recovered, and informed him of what 
had happened to them. 

"Why — why," he stuttered in agitation, "it's 
the panther that escaped last night from the mena- 
gerie at W — . There is the hand-bill put up about 
an hour ago, offering a reward for it. You 're — 
you 're lucky he did not ma-make a meal of you in- 
stead of the pigs." 

Patty shook her head, " The poor things hol- 
lered so." 

A crowd soon gathered in the store, eager to hear 
all Sally had to tell ; then the men of the village 
armed themselves to go in search of the animal. 

Sally was still trembling, and poor Dolly, wet as 
though she had been through the river, was shiver- 
ing and panting at the same time. The half-mile 
of road they had to pass over to reach home after 
leaving the village ran for the better part through 
a wood. Sally was too alarmed to venture there 
alone, and a couple of men, who had hastily seized 
some weapon, accompanied her. So excited were 
they that every cracking noise in the trees put them 
on the alert; and once they exclaimed, "There he 
is ! " throwing the poor children into new alarms. 

Mr. Watson was incredulous when Lot burst out 
with "Oh, father, we have been chased by a bear 
— no, not a bear — a dreadful wild thing ! " and he 
would have thought Sally the victim 'of her own 
fears, had they not told him a panther had escaped 
from the menagerie; then he was most thankful for 
their deliverance. 

Dolly was blanketed and cared for, and they 
went in to supper, Lot's tongue going all the time 
about "the bear.'' Sally could not eat, she was 
still unnerved, and Patty could only pity the poor 
little pigs. 

"Indeed, father," Sally said in answer to his 
commendation, "if it had not been for that story 
in my Reader, we might all have been eaten up. 
When Lot talked about the bears as we were going 
over to Uncle Eben's, and what he would do if 
one was to attack us, I thought about the Russian 
woman throwing out her children to the wolves, to 
save herself, and that put it into my head to throw 
out the pigs when I saw the panther." 

For a long time Sally had an uncomfortable feel- 
ing in the woods, although the panther was caught 
on the next day and returned to its cage. 


By Mary Dayton. 

What is the difference if I mind or no ? 
The difference is, I mind and lose the show. 
And if I take the show and disobey, 
The difference is an aching back all day. 
The thing 's not fair, for if I choose the fun, 
I get the thrashing when the sport is done ; 
And what comes last is best remembered, so 
I 'm sure to get a deal more lash than show. 
Bobby says lie ; but if I lie, why, then, 
Perhaps I '11 have to twenty times again ; 
And if I lie, the truth is lost indeed — 
And truth 's a thing you very often need. 
Besides, these lies will only cowards use, 
And so, you see, a fellow cannot choose. 
Now, if a boy must never disobey, 
'T is ten to one he '11 never have his way ; 
And if he takes his way, and keeps the truth, 
He 's ten to one a most unlucky youth. 
Now, if he keeps the law, I 'd like to know 
How can a boy his independence show ; 
And if he breaks the law, I 'd like to see 
In what respect a fellow can be free. 






The moose, as we all know, is the very largest 
of the deer family, and is indeed as high as a com- 
mon horse. Now, size is often a great advantage, 
but not in all cases ; and his great size and weight 
sometimes prove fatal to the moose. In winter, 
when the snow is covered by a slight crust, over 
which ordinary animals can travel with ease, the 
poor moose, when pursued by the hunter, finds that 
he breaks through the crust at every step. Of 
course he cannot make very swift progress in this 
way, and the Indian hunter, on his snow-shoes, can 

run much faster, and soon comes up with him. 
Not many years ago, moose were found in the 
unsettled parts of Maine and New York, but they 
have been hunted so much for the sake of their ex- 
cellent flesh, that they are now seldom seen except 
in the regions north of those states. They are 
sometimes very unpleasant creatures to meet, for 
they may turn upon the hunter, even when he has 
not yet wounded or fired upon them. So it is often 
very well for the hunter that he is on snow-shoes, 
and that the moose breaks through the crust. 

i8 7 6.; 




By L E. R. 

Oh ! little loveliest lady mine, 

What shall I send for your valentine? 

Summer and flowers are far away ; 

Gloomy old Winter is king to-day. 

Buds will not blow, and sun will not shine ; 

What shall I do for a valentine ? 

Prithee, St. Valentine, tell me here. 
Why do you come at this time o' year ? 
Plenty of days when lilies are white, 
Plenty of days when sunbeams are bright. 
But now, when everything 's dark and drear, 
Why do you come, St. Valentine dear ? 

I Ye searched the gardens all through and through, 

For a bud to tell of my love so true. 

But buds were asleep and blossoms were dead, 

And the falling snow came down on my head. 

So, little loveliest lady mine. 

Here is my heart for your valentine ! 


By Bayard Taylor. 

Chapter IV. 
How much time passed in the sleep he never 
could exactly learn ; probably six to seven hours. 
He was aroused by what seemed to be icy-cold rat's 
feet scampering over his face, and as he started 
and brushed them away with his hand, his ears 
became alive to a terrible, roaring sound. He 
started up, alarmed, at first bewildered, then sud- 
denly wide awake. The cold feet upon his face 
were little threads of water trickling from above : 
the fearful roaring came from a storm — a hurricane 
of mixed rain, wind, cloud, and snow. It was day, 
yet still darker than the Arctic summer night, so 
dense and black was the tempest. When Jon crept 
out of the crevice, he was nearly thrown down by 
the force of the wind. The first thing he did was 
to seek the two lines of stones he had arranged for 
his guidance. They had not been blown away, as 

VOL. III. — 17. 

he feared ; and the sight of the arrow-head made 
his heart leap with gratitude to the Providence 
which had led him, for without that sign he would 
have been bewildered, at the very start. Return- 
ing to the cleft, which gave a partial shelter, he ate 
the greater part of his remaining store of food, 
fastened his thick coat tightly around his breast 
and throat, and set out on the desperate homeward 
journey, carefully following the lighter streak of 
rock across the plain. 

He had not gone more than a hundred yards 
when he fancied he heard a sharp, hammering 
sound through the roar of the tempest, and paused 
to listen. The sound came rapidly nearer ; it was 
certainly the hoofs of many horses. Nothing could 
be seen : the noise came from the west, passed in 
front of Jon. and began to die away to the east- 
ward. His blood grew chill for a moment. It was 




all so sudden and strange and ghostly, that he 
knew not what to think : and he was about to push 
forward and get out of the region where such things 
happened, when he heard, very faintly, the cry 
which the Icelanders use in driving their baggage- 
ponies. Then he remembered the deep gorge he 
had seen to the eastward, before reaching the 
crater ; the invisible travelers were riding toward 
it, probably lost, and unaware of their danger. 

forming a semicircle in front of him ; and then one 
of three dim, spectral riders, leaning forward, again 
called : " Come here ! " 

" I cannot ! " Jon answered again. 

Thereupon, another of the horsemen rode close 
to him, and stared down upon him. He said some- 
thing which Jon understood to be : " Erik, it is a 
little boy ! " — but he was not quite sure, for the 
man's way of talking was strange. He put the 




This thought passed through Jon's mind like a 
flash of lightning; he shouted with all the strength 
of his voice. 

He waited, but there was no answer. Then he 
shouted again, while the wind seemed to tear the 
sound from his lips and fling it away — but on the 
course the hoofs had taken. 

This time a cry came in return ; it seemed far 
off, because the storm beat against the sound. Jon 
shouted a third time, and the answer was now more 
distinct. Presently he distinguished words : 

" Come here to us ! " 

" I cannot ! " he cried. 

In a few minutes more he heard the hoofs return- 
ing, and then the forms of ponies became visible 
through the driving snow-clouds. They halted, 

words in the wrong places, and pronounced them 

The man who had first spoken jumped off his 
horse. Holding the bridle, he came forward and 
said, in good, plain Icelandic : 

" Why could n't you come when I called you ? " 

" I am keeping the road back," replied Jon ; " if 
I move, I might lose it." 

" Then why did you call us ? " 

" I was afraid you had lost your way, and might 
get into the chasm ; the storm is so bad you could 
not see it." 

"What's that?" exclaimed the first who had 

Jon described the situation as well as he could, 
and the stranger at last said, in his queer, broken 

i8 7 6.J 



speech : " Lost way — we ; can guide — you — know- 

The storm raged so furiously that it was with 
great difficulty that Jon heard the words at all ; 
but he thought he understood the meaning. So 
he looked the man in the face, and nodded, silently. 

" Erik — pony ! " cried the latter. 

Erik caught one of the loose ponies, drew it for- 
ward, and said to Jon : 

" Now, mount and show us the way ! " 

" I cannot ! " Jon repeated. " I will guide you ; 
I was on my way already, but I must walk back 
just as I came, so as to find the places and know 
the distances." 

" Sir," said Erik, turning to the other traveler, 
"we must let him have his will. It is our only 
chance of safety. The boy is strong and fearless, 
and we can surely follow where he was willing to 
go alone." 

" Take the lead, boy ! " the other said ; " more 
quick, more money ! " 

Jon walked rapidly in advance, keeping his eyes 
on the lighter colored streak in the plain. He saw 
nothing, but every little sign and landmark was 
fixed so clearly in his mind that he did not feel the 
least fear or confusion. He could hardly see, in 
fact, the foremost of the ponies behind him, but he 
caught now and then a word, as the men talked 
with each other. They had come from the north- 
ern shore of the island ; they were lost, they were 
chilled, weary ; their ponies were growing weak 
from hunger and exposure to the terrible weather ; 
and they followed him, not so much because they 
trusted his guidance, as because there was really 
nothing else left for them to do. 

In an hour and a half they reached the first land- 
mark ; and when the men saw Jon examining the 
line of stones he had laid, and then striking boldly 
off through the whirling clouds, they asked no 
questions, but urged their ponies after him. Thus 
several hours went by. Point after point was dis- 
covered, although no object could be seen until it 
was reached ; but Jon's strength, which had been 
kept up by his pride and his anxiety, at last began 
to fail. The poor boy had been so long exposed to 
the wind, snow, and icy rain, that his teeth chat- 
tered in his head, and his legs trembled as he 
walked. About noon, fortunately, there was a lull 
in the storm ; the rain slackened, and the clouds 
lifted themselves so that one might see for a mile 
or more. He caught sight of the rocky corner for 
which he was steering, stopped, and pointed toward 
one of the loose ponies. 

Erik jumped from the saddle, and threw his arms 
around Jon, whose senses were fast vanishing. He 
felt that something was put to his lips, that he was 
swallowing fire, and that his icy hands were wrapped 

in a soft, delicious warmth. In a minute he found 
that Erik had thrust them under his jacket, while 
the other two were bending over him with anxious 
faces. The stranger who spoke so curiously held 
a cake to his mouth, saying: "Eat — eat!" It was 
wonderful how his strength came back ! 

Very soon he was able to mount the pony and 
take the lead. Sometimes the clouds fell dense 
and dark around them ; but when they lifted only 
for a second, it was enough for Jon. Men and 
beasts suffered alike, and at last Erik said : 

" Unless we get out of the desert in three hours, 
we must all perish ! " 

Jon's face brightened. " In three hours," he 
exclaimed, " there will be pasturage, and water, 
and shelter." 

He was already approaching the region which he 
knew thoroughly, and there was scarcely a chance 
of losing the way. They had more than one furi- 
ous gust to encounter — more than one moment 
when the famished and exhausted ponies halted 
and refused to move ; but toward evening the last 
ridge was reached, and they saw below them, under 
a dark roof of clouds, the green valley-basin, the 
gleam of the river, and the scattered white specks 
of the grazing sheep. 

Chapter V. 

The ram Thor bleated loudly when he saw his 
master. Jon was almost too weary to move hand 
or foot, but he first visited every sheep, and ex- 
amined his rough home under the rock, and his 
few remaining provisions, before he sat down to 
rest. By this time, the happy ponies were appeas- 
ing their hunger, Erik and his fellow-guide had 
pitched a white tent, and there was a fire kindled. 
The owner of the tent said something which Jon 
could not hear, but Erik presently shouted : 

" The English gentleman asks you to come and 
take supper with us ! " 

Jon obeyed, even more from curiosity than 
hunger. The stranger had a bright, friendly face, 
and stretched out his hand as the boy entered the 
tent. " Good guide — eat ! " was all he was able to 
say in Icelandic, but the tone of his voice meant a 
great deal more. There was a lamp hung to the 
tent-pole, an india-rubber blanket spread on the 
ground, and cups and plates, which shone like 
silver, in readiness for the meal. Jon was amazed 
to see Erik boiling three or four tin boxes in the 
kettle of water: but when they had been opened, 
and the contents poured into basins, such a fragrant 
steam arose as he had never smelled in his life. 
There was pea-soup, and Irish stew, and minced 
collops, and beef, — and tea. with no limit to the 
lumps of sugar, — and sweet biscuits, and currant 
jelly ! Never had he sat down to such a rich, such 




a wonderful banquet. He was almost afraid to take 
enough of the dishes, but the English traveler filled 
his plate as fast as it was emptied, patted him on 
the back, and repeated the words : " Good guide — 
eat ! " Then he lighted a cigar, while Erik and 
the other Icelander pulled out their horns of snuff, 
threw back their heads, and each poured nearly a 
teaspoonful into his nostrils. They offered the 
snuff to Jon, but he refused both that and a cigar. 
He was warm and comfortable, to the ends of his 
toes, and his eyelids began to fall, in spite of all 
efforts to hold them up, after so much fatigue and 
exposure as he had endured. 

In fact, his senses left him suddenly, although he 
seemed to be aware that somebody lifted and laid 
him down again — that something soft came under 
his head, and something warm over his body — that 
he was safe, and sheltered, and happy. 

When he awoke it was bright day. He started 
up, striking his head against a white wet canvas, 
and sat a moment, bewildered, trying to recall what 
had happened. He could scarcely believe that he 
had slept all night in the tent, beside the friendly 
Englishman ; but he heard Erik talking outside, 
and the crackling of a fire, and the shouting of 
some one at a distance. The sky was clear and 
blue ; the sheep and ponies were nibbling sociably 
together, and the Englishman, standing on a rock 
beside the river, was calling attention to a big 
salmon which he had just caught. Gudridsdale. 
just then, seemed the brightest and liveliest place 
in Iceland. 

Jon knew that he had probably saved the party 
from death ; but he thought nothing of that, for 
he had saved himself along with them. He was 
simply proud and overjoyed at the chance of seeing 
something new — of meeting with a real English- 
man, and eating (as he supposed) the foreign, 
English food. He felt no longer shy. since he had 
slept, a whole night beside the traveler. The two 
Icelandic guides were already like old friends ; even 
the pony he had ridden seemed to recognize him. 
His father had told him that Latin was the language 
by which all educated men were able to communi- 
cate their ideas ; so as the Englishman came up, 
with his salmon for their breakfast, he said, in 
Latin : 

" To-day is better than yesterday, sir." 

The traveler laughed, shook hands heartily, and 
answered in Latin, with — to Jon's great surprise — 
two wrong cases in the nouns : 

" Both days are better for you than for me. I 
have learned less at Oxford." 

But the Latin and Icelandic together were a great 
help to conversation, and, almost before he knew 
what he was doing, Jon had told Mr. Lome — so 
the traveler was named — all the simple story of his 

life, even his claim to the little valley-basin wherein 
they were encamped, and the giving it his sister's 
name. Mr. Lome had crossed from the little town 
of Akureyri. on the northern shore of Iceland, and 
was bound down the valley of the Thiorva to the 
Geysers, thence to Helda, and finally to Rejkiavik, 
where he intended to embark for England. As 
Jon's time of absence had expired, his provisions 
being nearly consumed, and as it was also neces- 
sary to rest a day for the sake of the traveler's 
ponies, it was arranged that all should return in 
company to Sigurd's farm. 

That last day in Gudridsdale was the most de- 
lightful of all. They feasted sumptuously on the 
traveler's stores, and when night came, the dried 
grass from Jon's hollow under the rock was spread 
within the tent, making a soft and pleasant bed for 
the whole party. 

Mounted on one of the ponies, Jon led the way 
up the long ravine, cheerily singing as he drove 
the full-fed sheep before him. They reached the 
level of the desert table-land, and he gave one 
more glance at the black, scattered mountains to 
the northward, where he had passed two such ad- 
venturous days. In spite of all that he had seen 
and learned in that time, he felt a little sad that he 
had not succeeded in crossing the wilderness. 
When they reached the point where their way de- 
scended by a long, steep slope to the valley of the 
Thiorva, he turned for yet another, farewell view. 
Far off, between him and the nearest peak, there 
seemed to be a moving speck. He pointed it out 
to Erik, who, after gazing steadily a moment, said : 
" It is a man on horseback." 

" Perhaps another lost traveler ! " exclaimed Mr. 
Lome ; "let us wait for him." > 

It was quite safe to let the sheep and loose ponies 
take their way in advance ; for they saw the pas- 
ture below them. In a quarter of an hour the man 
and horse could be clearly distinguished. The 
former had evidently seen them also, for he ap- 
proached much more rapidly than at first. 

All at once Jon cried out : " It is our pony, Heim- 
dal ! It must be my father ! " 

He sprang from the saddle, as he spoke, and ran 
toward the strange horseman. The latter presently 
galloped up, walked a few steps, and sat down 
upon a stone. But Jon's arms were around him, 
and as they kissed each other, the father burst into 

" I thought thou wert lost, my boy," was all he 
could say. 

" But here I am, father!" Jon proudly exclaimed. 

" And the sheep ? " 

" Fat and sound, every one of them." 

Sigurd rose and mounted his horse, and as they 
all descended the slope together Jon and Erik told 

i8 7 6.] 



him all that had happened. Mr. Lome, to whom 
the occurrence was explained, shook hands with 
him, and, pointing to Jon, said in his broken way : 
" Good son — little man ! " Whereupon they all 
laughed, and Jon could not help noticing the proud 
and happy expression of his father's face. 

On the afternoon of the second day they reached 
Sigurd's farm-house ; but the mother and Gudrid, 
who had kept up an anxious look-out, met them 
nearly a mile away. After the first joyous embrace 
of welcome, Sigurd whispered a few words to his 
wife, and she hastened back, to put the guest-room 
in order. Mr. Lome found it so pleasant to get 
under a roof again, that he ordered another halt of 
two days before going on to the Geysers and Hekla. 
No beverage ever tasted so sweet to him as the 
great bowl of milk which Gudrid brought, as soon 
as he had taken his seat, and the radishes from the 
garden seemed a great deal better than the little 
jar of orange marmalade which he insisted on giv- 
ing in exchange for them. 

"Oh, is it indeed orange?" cried Gudrid. "Jon, 
Jon, now we shall know what the taste is ! " 

Their mother gave them a spoonful apiece, and 
Mr. Lome smiled as he saw their wondering, de- 
lighted faces. 

" Does it really grow on a tree? — and how high 
is the tree ? — and what does it look like ? — like a 
birch ? — or a potato-plant ? " Jon asked, in his 
eagerness, without waiting for the answers. It was 
very difficult for him to imagine what he had never 
seen, even in pictures, or anything resembling it. 
Mr. Lome tried to explain how different are the 
productions of nature in warmer climates, and the 
■children listened as if they could never hear enough 
of the wonderful story. At last Jon said, in his firm, 
quiet way : " Some day I '11 go there ! " 

" You will, my boy," Mr. Lome replied ; " you 
have strength and courage to carry out your will." 

Jon never imagined that he had more strength 
or courage than any other boy, but he knew that 
the Englishman meant to praise him, so he shook 
hands as he had been taught to do on receiving a 

The two days went by only too quickly. The 
guest furnished food both for himself and the fam- 
ily, for he shot a score of plovers and caught half a 
dozen fine salmon. He was so frank and cheerful 
that they soon became accustomed to his presence, 
and were heartily sorry when Erik and the other 
Icelandic guide went out to drive the ponies to- 
gether, and load them for the journey. Mr. Lome 
called Sigurd and Jon into the guest-room, untied 
a buckskin pouch, and counted out fifty silver rix- 
dollars upon the table. "For my little guide!" 
he said, putting his hand on Jon's thick curls. 
Father and son, in their astonishment, uttered a 

cry at the same time, and neither knew what to say. 
But, brokenly as Mr. Lome talked, they understood 
him when he said that Jon had probably saved his 
life, that he was a brave boy and would make a 
good, brave man, and that if the father did not need 
the money for his farm-expenses, he should apply 
it to his son's education. 

The tears were running down Sigurd's cheeks. 
He took the Englishman's hand, gave it a powerful 
grip, and simply said: "It shall be used for his 

Jon was so strongly moved that, without stopping 
to think, he did the one thing which his heart sug- 
gested. He walked up to Mr. Lome, threw* his 
arms around his neck, and kissed him very ten- 

"All is ready, sir ! " cried Erik, at the door. The 
last packages were carried out and tied upon the 
baggage-ponies, farewells were said once more, and 
the little caravan took its way down the valley. The 
family stood in front of the house, and watched 
until the ponies turned around the first cape of the 
hills and disappeared ; then they could only sit 
down and talk of all the unexpected things that 
had happened. There was no work done upon the 
farm that day. 

Chapter VI. 

The unusual warmth of the summer, which was 
so injurious to the pastures lying near the southern 
coast, wrought fortune to Sigurd's farm. The 
price of wool was much higher than usual, and 
owing to Jon's excursion into the mountains, the 
sheep were in the best possible condition. They 
had never raised such a crop of potatoes, nor such 
firm, thick-headed cabbages, and by great care and 
industry a sufficient supply of hay had been secured 
for the winter. 

" I am afraid something will happen to us," said 
Sigurd one day to his wife ; "the good luck comes 
too fast." 

"Don't say that ! " she exclaimed. " If we were 
to lose Jon " 

"Jon!" interrupted Sigurd. "Oh, no; look at 
his eyes, his breast, his arms and legs — there are 
a great many years of life in them ! He ought to 
have a chance at the school in Rejkiavik, but we 
can hardly do without him this year." 

" Perhaps brother Magnus would take him," she 

" Not while I live," Sigurd replied, as he left the 
room, while his wife turned with a sigh to her 
household duties. Her family, and especially her 
elder brother, Magnus, who was a man of wealth 
and influence, had bitterly opposed her marriage 
with Sigurd, on account of the latter's poverty, and 
she had seen none of them since she came to live 




on the lonely farm. Through great industry and 
frugality, they had gradually prospered ; and now 
she began to long for a reconciliation, chiefly for 
her husband's and children's sake. It would be 
much better for Jon if he could find a home in his 
uncle's house, when they were able to send him to 

So, when they next rode over to Kyrkedal on a 
Sabbath day in the late autumn, she took with her 
a letter to Magnus, which she had written without 
her husband's knowledge, for she wished to save 
him the pain of the slight, in case her brother 
should refuse to answer, or should answer in an 
unfriendly way. It was a pleasant day for all of 
them, for Mr. Lome had stopped a night at Kyrke- 
dal, and Erik had told the people the story of 
Jon's piloting them through the wilderness ; so the 
pastor, after service, came up at once to them and 
patted Jon on the head, saying: " Bene fecisti, 
Jili /" And the other boys, forgetting their usual 
shyness, crowded around and said : " Tell us all 
about it ! " Everything was as wonderful to them, 
as it still seemed to Jon in his memory, and when 
each one said : " If I had gone there I should have 
done the same thing ! " Jon wondered that he and 
the boys should ever have felt so awkward and 
bashful when they came together. Now it was all 
changed ; they talked and joked like old compan- 
ions, and cordially promised to visit each other dur- 
ing the winter, if their parents were willing. 

On the way home Sigurd found that he had 
dropped his whip, and sent Jon back to look for it, 
leaving his wife and Gudrid to ride onward up the 
valley. Jon rode at least half a mile before he 
found it, and then came galloping back, cracking 
it joyously. But Sigurd's face was graver and wea- 
rier than usual. 

" Ride a little while with me," he said; " I want 
to ask thee something." Then, as Jon rode beside 
him in the narrow tracks which the ponies' hoofs 
had cut through the turf, he added : " The boys at 
Kyrkedal seemed to make much of thee ; I hope 
thy head is not turned by what they said. " 

" Oh, father ! " Jon cried ; " they were so kind, 
so friendly ! " 

" I don't doubt it," his father answered. " Thou 
hast done well, my son, and I see that thou art 
older than thy years. But suppose there were a 
heavier task in store for thee, — suppose that I 

should be called away, — couldst thou do a man's 
part, and care properly for thy mother and thy 
little sister ? " 

Jon's eyes filled with tears, and he knew not 
what to say. 

" Answer me ! " Sigurd commanded. 

•' I never thought of that," Jon answered, in a 
trembling voice; "but if I were to do my best, 
would not God help me ? " 

" He would ! " Sigurd exclaimed, with energy. 
"All strength comes from Him, and all fortune. 
Enough — I can trust thee, my son ; ride on to Gud- 
rid, and tell her not to twist herself in the saddle, 
looking back ! " 

Sigurd attended to his farm for several days 
longer, but in a silent, dreamy way, as if his mind 
were busy with other thoughts. His wife was so 
anxiously awaiting the result of her letter to Mag- 
nus, that she paid less attention to his condition 
than she otherwise would have done. 

But one evening, on returning from the stables, 
he passed by the table where their frugal supper 
was waiting, entered the bedroom, and sank down, 
saying : 

"All my strength has left me; I feel as if I 
should never rise again." 

They then saw that he had been attacked by a 
dangerous fever, for his head was hot, his eyes 
glassy, and he began to talk in a wild, incoherent 
way. They could only do what the neighbors were 
accustomed to do, in similar cases, — which really 
was worse than doing nothing at all would have 
been. Jon was dispatched next morning, on the 
best pony, to summon the physician from Skalholt; 
but, even with the best luck, three days must elapse 
before the latter could arrive. The good pastor of 
Kyrkedal came the next day and bled Sigurd, 
which gave him a little temporary quiet, while it 
reduced his vital force. The physician was absent, 
visiting some farms far to the eastward, — in fact, it 
was a full week before he made his appearance. 
During this time Sigurd wasted away, his fits of 
delirium became more frequent, and the chances 
of his recovery grew less and less. Jon recalled, 
now. his father's last conversation, and it gave him 
both fear and comfort. He prayed, with all the 
fervor of his boyish nature, that his father's life 
might be spared ; yet he determined to do his 
whole duty, if the prayer should not be granted. 

(To be continued.) 

l8 7 6.] 




By Sarah O. Jewett. 



OWN in a field, one day in June, 
. k e&y The flowers all bloomed together. 
^jS^" Save one, who tried to hide herself, 

And drooped, that pleasant weather. 

A robin who had soared too high, 

And felt a little lazy, 
Was resting near a buttercup 

Who wished she were a daisy. 

For daisies grow so trig and tall ; 

She always had a passion 
For wearing frills about her neck 

In just the daisies' fashion. 

And buttercups must always be 
The same old tiresome color, 

While daisies dress in gold and white, 
Although their gold is duller. 

" Dear robin," said this sad young flower, 
" Perhaps you 'd not mind trying 
To find a nice white frill for me, 
Some day, when you are flying ? " 

" You silly thing ! " the robin said ; 
" I think you must be crazy ! 
I 'd rather be my honest self 
Than any made-up daisy. 

" You 're nicer in your own bright gown, 
The little children love you ; 
Be the best buttercup you can, 
And think no flower above you. 

Though swallows leave me out of sight. 

We 'd better keep our places ; 
Perhaps the world would all go wrong 

With one too many daisies. 

Look bravely up into the sky. 

And be content with knowing 
That God wished for a buttercup, 

Just here where you are growing. 1 




By Susan Coolidge. 

[Two youthful goats, belonging to families of high degree among the goat tribes, once encountered each other upon a narrow tree-trunk 
which spanned a mountain torrent. Said the goat from the East to the goat from the West : " Go back and make way. I am an important 
goat, a goat of degree. It is but proper that common goats should stand aside when I pass by. " " Common, indeed ! Pray what do you 
mean by common ? " replied the one from the West. " I would have you to know that I am a fuil-blooded Merino ! Merinoes make way for 
nobody. Go back yourself ! " The dispute raged. Neither would yield an inch. At last, in heat of argument, their horns locked, and a 
desperate struggle began, in the midst of which both goats lost footing, and, still fighting, fell from the bridge into the water, which speedily 
cooled their anger and brought them to their senses.] ' 

The day of Miss Alicia Belden's annual picnic 
was the most exciting day of the year in Lanark 
village. Excitements were not frequent in pretty 
Lanark, nor holidays many. There were Sundays, 
to be sure — Sunday goes everywhere ; Christmas, 
observed in simple country fashion ; Lady-day, 
when rents came due and servants changed places ; 
Shrove Tuesday, conspicuous for pancakes ; and 
Good Friday, when all the world went to church 
except the Independent Baptists, who (there being 
nothing else doing) sat at home and found the day 
long and dull. But none of these, the children 
thought, compared in interest with Miss Alicia's 
picnic. It was their day, and grown people, 
except Miss Alicia, had nothing whatever to do 
with it. 

Miss Alicia Belden was a retired sugar-baker. 
The taste for gingerbread is universal as that for 
freedom. Miss Alicia's gingerbread came as near 
to being good as British gingerbread can be. It 

looked like bar-soap, but it did not taste like, that; 
and the youth of Lanark, having never known the 
delicious American article made of molasses, voted 
it prime and consumed it in enormous quantities. 
Buns and turnovers also did Miss Alicia make ; 
cheese-cakes, which melted in the mouth ; tea- 
cakes, with currant eyes ; and toffy, which won 
praise even from London visitors. No wonder, 
then, that her trade prospered, and that by the 
time she was fifty, and her earliest customers staid 
men and women with gingerbread-eating boys and 
girls of their own, she was able, as the newspapers 
say, to " retire on a competence." This com- 
petence was not a large one, but it left a margin 
for what Miss Alicia called " pleasures," chief 
among which was the annual picnic she gave all 
the children of the village. Every one was in- 
cluded, even the little Independent Baptists. Some 
of Miss Alicia's friends thought that this was going 
too far. But she would listen to no remonstrances. 

i8 7 6.] 



•' What ! " she said, " go and leave any of the 
poor dears behind to cry their eyes out at home ! 
I could n't enjoy the day a bit if I did — not one 
bit." So all the children went. 

Helm Island, six miles off at sea, being the pic- 
nicking place, the day always began with a sail in 
a wheezy little steam-tug chartered by Miss Alicia. 
It left Lanark according to the tide. On this day 
which I am going to tell about, the tide served at 
half-past nine in the morning, and there was great 
hurry and confusion in the village households to 
get the little ones dressed and ready in time. 
Some of the children had been up at daybreak to 
see what sort of day it was going to be. These 
thought the older folks unusually late and slow. 
They danced about, impatiently begging every- 
body to make haste, to hurry, or they should cer- 
tainly be left behind ; in which case — but here they 
stopped ; imagination could go no farther than 
that frightful possibility ! 

"Put on your blue frock, Nancy," said Mrs. 
Sarkie ; " not the pink-sprigged. That lass of the 
Spences '11 likely wear her sprigged, and I 'd not 
wish to have you look as if you dressed alike, or 
was any way connected, and the families not speak- 
ing as they do." 

" Yes, indeed, mother," responded Nancy, with 
a little toss of her head, '' I 'd be sorry at that too. 
Nancy Spence is always getting things like mine. 
I wish she would n't. It 's just as if she did it 

" Not that I wish to say aught against the lass," 
went on Mrs. Sarkie. " She 's well enough, and 
so was her mother afore her ; a good-natured lass 
her mother was at school, years back. Nobodv 
denies that. But after the way Farmer Spence has 
behaved and all, no one would wish to liken you 
together in any sort ; it is n't natural, and I 'm 
sure your father would n't want it." 

On the farther side of the village, toward the 
east, in another big, substantial red-brick farm- 
house, set about with thick orchards and waving 
fields of grain, Mrs. Spence was fastening Iter 
Nancy's frock, blue also. 

" The pink sprig is the freshest," she said, "but 
it 's just like that one of Nancy Sarkie's. which 
she '11 be sure to wear, so I 'd rather have you in 
this. 'T aint worth while to be imitating neighbors 
that is n't neighborly — that 's my opinion." 

" Nancy Sarkie is a cross, stuck-up thing ! " said 
Nancy Spence. "What do you think she said 
one day at school, mother ? — that her father's folks 
in London 'd have nothing to do with low people 
like us Spences ! Ought she to have said that ? 
Is n't father as good as the Sarkies ? " 

" Set her up. indeed ! " cried Mrs. Spence, flush- 
ing. ".-(J good? I should think so. I never yet 

heard tell of a Sarkie as could hold his head higher 
than a Spence. Why, Nancy, your father's uncle 
in Bristol, as died so rich, kept his own carriage — 
carriage and horses ! " 

"Did he?" said Nancy, eagerly. "I'll tell 
Nancy Sarkie that next time she boasts. You 
can't think how rude she is sometimes, mother. 
Last picnic she gave me a great shove and most 
pushed me down. What makes her act so ? " 

" Some of the father's blood in her, I guess," 
replied Mrs. Spence. " Her mother was a good 
girl enough before she wedded him. Ah ! your 
father could tell tales. He 's had cause to know 
what Sarkie is, if ever man had. But never mind 
that now, Nancy ; we wont rake up trouble this 
day of all days in the year." ■ 

She tied Nancy's hat ribbons firmly as she spoke, 
and gave her hair a last smooth. 

" Good-by. mother. Oh! you're putting on 
your bonnet. Are you going to walk down with 
me ? " 

'• To be sure I am. I want to see you safe off." 

The dock was crowded when they reached it. 
Far below in the basin floated the tug, and the 
sailors were placing a plank with hand-rails for the 
children to pass over. Presently, a stream of little 
figures began to pour across it to the deck. 

" I declare," pouted Nancy Sarkie, " there 's 
that Spence girl in blue after all. Is n't it too bad, 
mother ? " 

" Yes. I wish now you 'd worn the sprigs," said 
Mrs. Sarkie. " But never let it matter : you can 
enjoy yourself all the same if she is in blue." 

" No, I can't. I don't like to have her setting 
herself up to dress like me," said Nancy. 

Her face was quite clouded as she walked slowly 
down the plank. 

" Ts, ts, ts ! " clicked Mrs. Spence between her 
teeth. ' ' That Sarkie lass has on the blue frock 
like yours. Well, well ! If there was time, Nancy, 
you should run home and change." 

" There is n't," replied Nancy with a little scowl. 
" I don't care, mother. She can't be me, even if 
we have both got on blue frocks. Nobody '11 mis- 
take us for each other. " 

With a laugh she ran down the plank. The 
tug gave three screeching whistles as a signal to 
belated comers. At the sound, a woman who was 
walking along the shore with two boys began to 

" Just in time," said the captain, as she handed 
the little fellows down to him. 

Then the whistle sounded once more, the pad- 
dles revolved, the children raised their voices in a 
shrill cheer, and the boat moved away. The day 
of pleasure was begun. 

Seated on either side the deck, the two Nancvs 




glared gloomily across. Why did they dislike each 
other so much ? I don't think either could have 
told. The ill-feeling between the families had be- 
gun years ago, when the girls were babies, and 
nobody now recollected exactly how it began. 
There was something about a bit of land and right 
of way, something about a trespassing pig, some- 
body had called somebody else hard names — who 
or what did n't matter; it was a good thorough 
quarrel, one of the sort which the ill-natured imps 
delight in, and the children, as children will, threw 
themselves into the warfare with a .zeal surpassing 
that of their elders. Pride and ill-humor are not 
pleasant things to carry to a picnic, and it might 
be predicted in advance that the two Nancys were 
not likely to have a perfectly agreeable day. 

The first trouble came soon after landing, when 
Nancy Spence by mistake lifted the wrong basket. 

" Put that down ! " said Nancy Sarkie, sharply. 
" Miss Alicia told me to carry that. You 've no 
business to touch it." 

Nancy Spence was a year older than the other 
Nancy, and a good deal taller ; but she was also 
gentler and more easily cowed. She dropped the 
basket quickly, and said confusedly : 

" I did n't know — I did n't mean to " 

" O yes ! " replied Nancy Sarkie, tauntingly — 
" did n't know ! did n't mean to ! That 's the way 
you always go on, Nancy Spence — meddling, al- 
ways meddling ! Everybody knows that." 

"No such thing," said the larger Nancy; "I 
don't meddle. You 've no call to talk to me like 

So the dispute proceeded, Nancy Sarkie repeat- 
ing that Nancy Spence was a meddler, and she 
retorting that Nancy Sarkie was a spitfire. 

"Girls, what is the matter?" said Miss Alicia, 
overhearing them. " Let Nancy alone, Nancy 
Sarkie. You began it, I know ; you always do. 
What does ail you to provoke each other always ? 
Come with me one of you. I shall keep you sepa- 
rate if there is n't an end to this barking and biting 
and calling of names." Saying which she marched 
Nancy Spence away. 

Nancy Sarkie was left behind. The pretty island 
lay before her with its plumy trees and stretches of 
yellow beach. Behind was the sea, dimpled and 
shining ; overhead, the blue sky and the sun ; but 
she looked at none of these fair things. Her heart 
was sullen and heavy ; the bright did not seem 
bright just then — the blue sky might as well have